


Not Yourself

by sophinisba



Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003), Lord of the Rings - Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Dark, Drugs, Gen, Imprisonment, Mental Illness, Ring claiming, Torture, over 10000 words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-01-12
Updated: 2007-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-06 14:41:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 35,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophinisba/pseuds/sophinisba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gen AU following mostly movie-verse. Faramir takes the Ring and means to save Frodo from madness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Journey

They’ve taken away his sword, of course. That was the first thing, back at Osgiliath. They took away the sword even before they took the Ring. Knocked it out of his hand and pushed him back against a broken stone wall, and Frodo was barely aware of Sam staggering away, clutching at his throat but still staring back at Frodo with an expression Frodo was too preoccupied at the time to try to interpret. As Frodo continued to struggle, the men pushed harder, then in frustration began to strike him. And Frodo thought he heard Sam give a shout of protest before the grey shapes around him lost form and faded to nothingness.

Frodo understands them taking away Sting and reflects that he never really made good use of it as a weapon. It served as a warning when orcs were near, it worked to threaten and tame Gollum, but he never actually used it to harm any of their enemies. And then he used it to betray Sam and, he realizes now, to betray himself, their quest, the faint hope that Gandalf and all the others had placed in him.

“Useless,” he mutters, and the man’s hand moves up and down his right arm again, probably trying to soothe. Frodo awoke in this position, spread uncomfortably on a full sized horse, pressed against an unseen man at his back. The man holds Frodo close with one arm clasped around his chest, grasping the reins with the other. Frodo’s hands are bound together in front of him. He’s tried to turn to glimpse the man’s face, but the hold tightens whenever Frodo tries to move. The horse jerks up and down and Frodo aches all over, but especially on the right side of his face, and the middle of his top lip, where he can taste blood, and on the left side of his chest (his heart, he thinks with a wild kind of amusement) -- places where he supposes he was hit especially hard. He concentrates on the horse’s rhythm and tries to immerse himself in the physical pain. It hurts places in him, and it hurts as nothing has hurt since the troll’s spear in Moria, but there is a straightforward cause to it, and there is a limit to it. He can imagine this pain might lessen over time.

The shame, the loss, the certainty of his failure is a different feeling altogether. It is absolute, overwhelming, and, he is sure, permanent. He tongues his swollen lip and tries to recall the punches instead.

Or tries to imagine what it might feel like if they were to turn the sword on him. If they were to lose patience with his struggling and his resistance, and simply stab into his heart and end it. He is fairly certain this is what they did to Gollum, at Osgiliath, after Frodo passed out. Perhaps what Frodo himself should have done to him much earlier. For what is the use in mercy, or compassion, or friendship even, when your enemy is the kind that can take hold of anyone? Frodo dared to trust the disgusting creature that certainly planned to take the Ring from him, but in the end he was defeated by this handsome, seemingly rational and kind man.

It could have been anyone though, Frodo muses; given enough time and the growing desire for the Ring he believes even Sam might have tried to betray him. Or Frodo himself…

He feels the vibration of the man's chest behind him, looks around and knows that several of the men are shouting to each other, but he cannot seem to make out any of their words, or to care very much. He is powerless here, so what good will it do him to know what is going on?

The horses are slowing, then stopped, and Frodo is lifted around his arms, off the horse and onto the ground. Although he is set down on his feet, there is no strength in his legs and he immediately drops to his knees. With his hands still bound, he is off balance and toppling forward, unable to steady himself, but he is caught before he falls completely. He is held, he is embraced; and the pressure intensifies the pain in his chest, but it is a good pain, immediate and grounding. There are more vibrations, and sounds, and a face close to his, and there is warmth and support. But Frodo still doesn't comprehend words or identify faces. The world around him doesn't quite spin, but it does seem to tilt and rock for some moments, and Frodo leans into the arms that hold him, and waits for the world to still.

"Mr. Frodo?"

What is it? The sun is low in the sky but still too bright, and Frodo can't see properly. The earth though is steady at last. Frodo is still kneeling on the ground and so is the hobbit facing him, but the earth may as well swallow them up. Frodo has regained his balance and he squirms.

"Mr. Frodo, can you stand up? This isn't a good place, we'll just…"

The voice goes on talking and the arms loosen but don't let go, and soon he is being pulled up and onto his feet again. He wants to hit out, forgetting his hands are still tied, and he nearly loses his balance yet again, but this time the hand only catches his shoulder to steady him, and waits.

"That's all right, Mr. Frodo, it's only your Sam. Now, do you think you can walk over to this hillock with me and we'll have a bite to eat, before they load us back on them horses again?"

There is too much that needs to be said to Sam, a level of betrayal and regret that Frodo cannot possibly express. And anyway he can barely speak at the moment. He opens his mouth to apologize, but what come out is a half-croak, half-sob, and the words, "It's gone."

Ah, the shame is overwhelming, and he loses his bearings again for a bit, loses the ability to make out Sam's chatter, but lets himself be led a few yards away, and sits down with Sam on the hillock and does not weep. The words continue, and something is pressed into his hands. And even though they are still bound together Sam shows him that he can lift them to his mouth, and tear off a bite of whatever it is (tough, salty), and chew. Pain pulses on his face.

Frodo hears: "get a few bites of that…fresh water they gave us…asked them if I could undo the bonds on your poor hands, but they said…" He thinks that Sam sounds resigned but awkward. Frodo swallows the dried meat. "…only stopped to make sure you were all right, because Mr. Faramir was worried you'd faint again. But it's not far now at all."

Frodo's heart is racing at the mention of the name. And Faramir must be nearby, would not have let Frodo out of his sight. But Frodo tries not look around for him, tries to concentrate on what is important.

"...Get to Minas Tirith by sundown," Sam is saying, "and after that…"

"The quest, Sam," says Frodo. "We didn't -- I mean, we were meant to take it to Mordor, and in secret. I don't know how we could get it back now, and even if we did, there's no chance of our staying hidden now. And we've no guide, for he killed Sméagol, didn't he? We -- "

"Well, we didn't make it to Mordor, that's one way of looking at it," Sam interrupts. But Sam does not interrupt Frodo. Or at least, he never has, but things have changed now, Frodo understands at once. "But another way is, we weren't likely to make it anyway, seeing as we didn't know the way, and that Stinker had it in mind to throttle us while we slept." Sam lays his hand on Frodo's shoulder again, and Frodo flinches, but he does not attempt to move away. "You can say we didn't finish the quest, but you could also say we finished our part in it, and now it's Mr. Faramir's turn." Sam pauses; Frodo tenses. "Let the men fight the battles," Sam continues, "and let you and me get some rest, and let you get healthy again, and see about getting home."

"And what do you mean by that?" Frodo snaps, distantly surprised at how much more easily the words flow when they are spoken in anger. "'Let me get healthy again'? What exactly is thought to be wrong with me?" He knows, of course he knows what they think, but some twisted part of him wants to hear Sam voice the accusations: _You're mad, Mr. Frodo. You tried to hurt me, Mr. Frodo. You were **weak**, Mr. Frodo, and you let the Ring take over you. You'd never have made it to Mount Doom, Mr. Frodo, the Ring wouldn't have let you destroy it._

But Sam says none of these things, perhaps because, even as Frodo sits on the ground with his hands tied and his body nearly too weak to eat, even surrounded by armed men, Sam is still afraid of him.

Instead Sam answers, "Now, Mr. Frodo, you know I don't mean anything against you. I'm only saying, we can be done with it now, and that doesn't have to be such a terrible thing."

It _does_ have to be, Frodo knows; there is no possible way things can cease to be terrible now. But Frodo doesn't feel up to explaining it, and Sam doesn't seem much interested in listening. Frodo finishes the food, drinks the water that Sam presses into his hands next, and allows himself to be lifted back onto the horse.

_Get to Minas Tirith by sundown_, he thinks, _and after that_… but he can't remember what is meant to come next.


	2. The House

Ioreth cannot believe her eyes.

She has heard of halflings before, that isn't why. Although she has not yet seen the one who arrived with Mithrandir two days ago, she has heard the talk of him. She scolds her underlings and the patients for gossiping and she pretends not to listen, but even so she's heard it too many times to dismiss it as a rumor. So she is not staring at creatures out of legend but probably at two compatriots of that other visitor. Stranger things have been heard of, stranger things Ioreth has seen, in this House and in others.

But she cannot believe what has been done to them, what is still being done to them by Faramir and his men. Two warriors are holding each of the little ones fast, and the look of fear in both halflings' eyes makes it clear: the bruises and cuts on this one’s face, the one that Faramir has called Frodo, were put there by these men. And Captain of Gondor or no, only living son of the Steward though he may now be, Ioreth thinks, she will never, ever forgive him for this.

Ioreth's normal way is to see to the patient and his comfort first, but her mind is clouded with fury, and all she can think right now is that she must make Faramir recognize how wrong this is.

"You beat him." She finds that she is not shouting, that her voice is quiet but very clear. "You found him in the wild, lost and half-starved, and you _knew_ he was ill." _Any **fool** could see he was ill_, she has enough sense not to say aloud. "And you knew enough to bring him here to us. But you… you and your orders, _you_ but these bruises on his face. And other places too, I'm sure I'll find out soon enough. Faramir, _never_ have I known you to torture a prisoner. What can he possibly have done?"

"Ioreth, you didn't see him. You don't know anything about this." His voice is calm but also contains a note of warning. It is not enough to make Ioreth submit to him (nothing is), but it does somehow bring her mind back to the task at hand.

"Enough talk." She's really saying it to herself, but she snaps the words out at Faramir. And to the soldiers, "Get your hands off them." The men all look to Faramir for a sign. "You don't need to check with him," Ioreth says. "You're in the Houses of Healing now, not a battlefield, and I'm in charge here."

To her consternation, the soldiers still look to Faramir. When he nods, it is not clear whether he is supporting her claim to authority or only going along with this particular direction. In any case, they let the halflings go.

At first no one moves. The only noise is a light clinking of glass. Ioreth's granddaughter, Analeth, is reaching for medicines from the cabinet on one side of the room. Practical girl.

The fair-haired one -- Ioreth has not heard his name, she knows Frodo will be the focus of their attention -- looks as if he would like to go to Frodo and embrace or comfort him, but he stands awkwardly in place.

Frodo himself has a wild and unsteady look, as if he might move to attack Faramir, or any of them. Instead he speaks, and his voice is angry but contained, reminding Ioreth of her own tone moments ago. "I'm not ill," he says, and his gaze darts from one to another of the tall men and women surrounding him, avoiding only the eyes of his friend.

Faramir actually kneels before Frodo in order to look him in the eyes. "Frodo," he says, "surely you realize that you are not yourself.” Ioreth is amazed at the compassion in his voice, still furious over the violence this man has committed against a seemingly innocent and defenseless creature.

“You don’t know. You don’t know me.” There is a pause, and Frodo sounds much less controlled than before when he says, "I've told you, Faramir, this won't accomplish what you want. I don't need healing, I've told you. This quest, I need to continue -- "

“No, Frodo,” Faramir interrupts, "I would not send you off alone in this state."

Analeth cuts across the room towards the door, and Frodo's eyes follow her, alarmed. Ioreth realizes quickly that the girl is probably going to boil water for a calming tea, but she raises a hand to stop her; there will not be time.

"Where is she going?" Frodo demands in a high, strangled voice. "What do you mean to do to us? What _is_ this place?"

"Be still, master halfling." Ioreth lays a hand on his shoulder, and he shudders but does not quite dare to pull away. "No one is going to hurt you."

"You've come to the House for the Healing of the Spirit," Faramir says, and Ioreth watches as Frodo finally loses control.

He lashes out at Ioreth and makes a scratch at her face before the soldiers can take hold of him again. They hold his arms back by the elbows so that he cannot hurt himself or anyone else, but he continues to kick and to cry out. The men grip harder and the halfling is in obvious pain, but this time Ioreth does not protest. Now that she realizes what kind of case this will be, her aversion is stronger than her compassion.

Above the noise of both halflings' shouting and the soldiers' swearing, Ioreth calls out, "The cloth, Analeth, _now_."

Analeth has been standing frozen in the doorway, but now she runs back to the cabinet, grabs a clean rag and tips the brown bottle from the top shelf, as she has learned in her years of work in this House, to spill just the right amount. She runs to Ioreth, who has is now holding the back of Frodo's neck and head. With her free hand Ioreth snatches away the cloth and presses it close to his face, forcing him to breathe the overpowering fumes. Frodo's eyes lose focus immediately while his limbs continue to twitch, and he struggles for a moment to jerk his head away and breathe clean air. But Ioreth is efficient, her grip is firm and the concoction is plenty strong enough. Within seconds he relaxes and then collapses, held up only by the soldiers' hands on his arms and by Ioreth, now clutching around his torso. His eyes roll back and then close, and Ioreth is once again aware of the rest of the room: the sickly sweet smell of medicine in the air; Analeth wringing her hands; the sudden silence broken only by the other halfling's quiet weeping a few yards away. Slowly, cautiously, Ioreth and the guards allow Frodo's body to sink to the floor.


	3. The Bath

Frodo awakes retching and feels unfamiliar hands supporting him, turning him, not soothing or gentle but seemingly patient. He has eaten little and the vomiting does not last long, but the nausea, the dizziness, and the panic continue. Frodo gasps and struggles to orient himself. The hands are smaller than those of Faramir's men but still large to him, still frighteningly strong. Their skin, unlike that of the warriors, matches the paleness of Frodo's own. One set of hands is thin and bony and clasps especially tightly at his upper arm and shoulders. A softer hand holds his chest, and its pair moves to push his hair back away from his mouth. Frodo is lying on the floor, turned on his side. He hears women's voices but cannot quite make out their words at first.

The phrase "just breathe," in a strangely curt voice, reaches him somehow and Frodo concentrates on that. He closes his eyes again, breathing in and out.

"You're safe now, Frodo," says the other voice. "You know we shan't hurt you." Frodo knows nothing of the kind, and the fact that these strangers have called him by name does not help to calm him. He fights to be still, however, for he knows it will be easier that way. He opens his eyes and recognizes the two women he saw on his arrival. There is the older, severe one who felt comfortable scolding Faramir and ordering his men around. The hand that now strokes his face belongs to the young woman who bowed her head and followed the other's commands. Her face is kind but somehow blank, and it passes through Frodo's mind that the one person here who seems to sympathize with him also appears to be quite powerless.

With an effort, Frodo manages to sit up on his own and to push the hands away. He holds his hands around opposite elbows and struggles not to react to the pain in his chest. "Who are you?" he asks, wishing his voice could sound a bit stronger and more dignified.

"I am Ioreth," said the older one. "I keep all the Houses of Healing running and I have a good deal of other work to see to. So once I see that you've calmed down a bit I'll be leaving you in the care of Analeth here." She acknowledges the girl with a turn of her head, and Frodo flushes as he perceives a slight uneasiness in Ioreth's manner, a distaste that seems to reflect more on him than on Analeth. "She has more experience with cases like yours."

"The healing of the spirit," he enunciates, at once amused and appalled at the euphemism.

"That's it," says Analeth happily and without a trace of irony. She is on her knees and has been scrubbing at the mess on the floor with a cloth, but she looks up now and into his eyes. "Frodo, we're so glad you've come here so we can begin to help you. Mistress Ioreth and I and all the healers… and Captain Faramir and your lovely halfling friend, we're all on your side here."

_Sam_, Frodo shuts his eyes and winces at the thought. Sam in league with Faramir and the "healers," Sam more frightened than any of them at Frodo's madness.

Ioreth interrupts his thoughts, apparently impatient with Analeth's attempts at encouragement. "If you're back to yourself, then, and ready to sit quietly, we'd best get on with getting you cleaned up. You've been sleeping in the wild for far too long." She wrinkles her nose, and Frodo is suddenly aware of his soiled clothes and filthy skin, so out of place in the cold stone room, between the two women in their clean white robes and clean white skin. He knows he will not resist much for now, for he does not wish to be here but these women are not the ones he needs to convince. Apart from that, he truly does wish to feel clean again.

"I am ready," he says quietly, looking around to see what he is expected to do next. Analeth pulls at his arms to help him stand up, then stands with him for a moment as they wait for a wave of dizziness to pass. Ioreth wipes her hands on another spare cloth and looks to be preparing to leave. Frodo relaxes slightly with relief, letting Analeth guide him over to an absurdly high chair by a higher table. She helps him climb up and his legs dangle awkwardly above the floor.

"None of these cuts are very deep," Ioreth says to Analeth, pressing a finger briefly at the most painful one, just below Frodo's right eye, and causing him to grip at the arms of the chair. "We won't need to sew them up, just get the dirt off his face right away and put some of the balm on them."

"Of course, ma'am." Analeth is already cleaning Frodo's face with a clean wet cloth as Ioreth walks away.

"And do crop it close," Ioreth says from the door."

'"It seems almost a shame," Analeth answers absently. She has been steadying his head with one hand while she wipes away the dirt, sweat, and blood with the other. She catches one of Frodo's curls through her fingers for a moment. He gives her a questioning look, but she only smiles at back him.

Ioreth sighs. "Sentimental girl," she is scolding but Frodo also registers affection, a familiar teasing in her voice. "Do you want them crawling over all the patients' heads? Do you want to be scratching at your own like some street urchin?"

"Of course I'll do it," Analeth assures her quickly. "I'm only saying he's got lovely curls, him and the other one both, not like anything I've seen before."

"They'll grow back," Ioreth says shortly as she pushes out the door and leaves them. Analeth works quietly, and Frodo savors the release of tension now that the older woman has left.

"What is it?" he finally asks.

"Ah, nothing to be concerned about," says Analeth, setting down her cloth. "Just those little critters you probably noticed crawling about in your hair and biting at your scalp. We'll put some oil on later, that kills them well enough, but it's easier if we cut most of your hair off first. We can burn it along with these old clothes of yours once you've had a bath and changed into something clean. I need to warn you, Frodo," she says apologetically, "we call this next bit a balm, but it won't feel very soothing just now. It's to keep wounds from festering, I think you must have something like it in your own country."

Frodo nods and thinks fleetingly of childhood's scraped knees and elbows, the ointment that hurt more than the initial injury. He cannot keep from tensing and hissing as she rubs it into his cuts with two fingers, but he manages to keep still.

"I need to put a little on your lip here," she says. "Try to leave it alone, don't lick any of it off. It won't taste very nice, of course, but the thing is to leave the balm there so it can do its work."

More stinging, more of her strangely intimate touch, and the evil taste is soon in his mouth. He doesn't think he's licked at it, but Analeth clicks her tongue and Frodo flushes, feeling as if he's done something wrong even though he's sure he has not.

"Do you need to spit it out?" she asks. He shakes his head and she cleans and dries her hands, then holds up a startlingly large pair of scissors. "I'll just start in on this then, as soon as you tell me you're ready."

Frodo nods and still she waits. He clears his throat. "Of course," he says.

Analeth chats idly as she cuts and doesn't seem to mind Frodo's sullen silence. He turns and shifts his head as ordered but otherwise tunes out the cheerful voice. She is obviously oblivious to his pain and humiliation. Frodo hears the shears cutting close behind his ear, feels the unfamiliar sensation of air moving close along his nearly bared scalp. His skin feels raw and red. "I hadn't noticed," he muses aloud.

"What's that, Frodo?" says Analeth brightly. He realizes he's interrupted her monologue, but she doesn't sound irritated.

"I hadn't noticed, the lice or the itch. I suppose I had other things on my mind." His voice sounds dull to him. Analeth is still clipping and Frodo feels more weight drop away.

"Perfectly understandable, that," she says. "You with a long journey such as it looks to have been, and other burdens weighing you down."

Frodo jerks at these words and feels the dull side of a blade at his neck. Analeth pulls the scissors away and places a hand on his shoulder. "What do you know of that?" he demands angrily.

"Nothing at all, Frodo," she says quickly. "Only Captain Faramir, after that spell came over you earlier, he said you'd carried a heavy burden a long way..."

Frodo shakes his head. "It was my burden to bear," he says. "Faramir isn't helping me by taking it away. None of you are helping me, do you know that?"

He tries to twist his head to look at her, and she moves around the chair to stand in front of him, looking calm but concerned. "It might not seem like a help to you now," she says, "but you'll see he only wants the best for you. Captain Faramir told us you'd brought a great gift to the land of Gondor, and that you deserved everyone's gratitude and respect."

"This is how you show gratitude and respect?" Frodo is incredulous. A wave of heat rushes though his whole body. "Lock your hero up in a madhouse and suffocate him till he loses consciousness?" He notices then that she Analeth is holding the scissors behind her back and safely out of his reach. He is perceived to be in a dangerous temper, then. He fights the urge to laugh or scream. All the admonitions to be quiet and calm are too to be borne when he thinks of what he's lost. He lifts a hand to his mouth and bites, relishing the sharp pain in his fingers.

"Don't, Frodo, you'll hurt yourself," she says firmly, reaching for the hand with one of her own and pulling it away from him. Frodo jumps off the chair but she catches him and holds both arms around him. He feels the handles of the scissors at his own back, the blades pointing away. He wonders how he might twist and snatch them away from her. She is larger and stronger than he, but he has more reason to fight. He has every reason to fight.

"_Captain Faramir_ will hurt me!" he hisses, twisting and trying to reach behind him. "He _has_ hurt me. You understand _nothing_!"

"Ioreth!" she calls out, and Frodo is less concerned with the noise, or the threat of the old woman, than with the direction of Analeth's gaze. She is looking to the place on the floor where he awoke, the dark brown bottle from earlier, the rag sitting next to it that was held to his mouth and nose. A trace of that horrible sweet smell lingers in the air, and Frodo goes limp in her arms again at the very memory of it. Her hold does not relax.

"Stop," he whispers. "I won't fight, I'll do as you say. Only don't make me breathe that stuff again."

"Just be still now, Frodo," is all she says, not promising anything, but she does shift slightly then, and her hold begins to feel more like an embrace. Frodo realizes that, although he no longer struggles, he cannot keep from trembling. "We mean to help you, you know. We just can't do it if you fight us like this."

"I'll do as you say," he repeats, wishing he could articulate a better reason for her to let him go, wishing anyone would believe him and trust him again. "Please."

Frodo hears rushed footsteps then and Ioreth reenters the room. Frodo cannot see but imagines that she stares speechless for a moment at the sight of the two of them.

Analeth speaks calmly, "Forgive me for shouting, ma'am, the emergency's passed now. But I think Frodo could do with a cup of that tea I started to prepare earlier." She pauses. "The cup's just there on the shelf of the cupboard. You might hold him for a bit, while I go for the water, or you could make it for us yourself, as you prefer." It is disconcerting to know the bossy old woman is now following Analeth's instructions, but Frodo is not surprised to hear Ioreth walking wordlessly towards the cabinet. She is probably loath to touch him any more than she must. Frodo's eyes tear up with the shame of it and he clings closer to Analeth.

"They're heating some water for his bath," says Ioreth. "The other halfling already had his; he's resting now."

How could Sam possibly _rest_, Frodo thinks, when things have gone so badly? He's more likely locked up in his own stone room, just gotten through the process more quickly because he believes their empty promises and doesn't fight them.

Ioreth continues, "I'll be back in a moment with the tea and have them bring in the basin." She hesitates. "You don't mind me leaving you alone with him?"

"Of course not," Analeth answers softly, still holding him close.

Frodo has stopped shaking now and manages to keep the tears from spilling out of his eyes. She allows him to turn slightly and look away. "Will it put me to sleep?" he asks quietly.

"What, the tea? No, though we've got a tincture for that, later on, that might help you. This will just take the edge off those nerves a bit." She shifts again. "Frodo, I'd like to sit down on the chair now, and you can sit with me and rest until you've calmed some more. Would that be all right?"

Frodo does not answer, but he lets her move around him again and then pull him up to sit on her lap. He feels very small and childlike, recalls sick days with his mother and then with his Aunt Esmeralda at Brandy Hall, and wonders that he could possibly be the same hobbit who snuggled trustingly in those mothers' arms. He is embarrassed to be held this way at his age, but he is also aware that he is more comfortable than when he sat on the wooden chair by himself.

Ioreth reenters the room, and seeing the way she looks at him Frodo suddenly remembers that he is still wearing his filthy travel clothes, and that he and his infested head are still held close to Analeth in her clean white robe. He startles away. "I'm sorry," he says, "you didn't finish cutting."

"It can wait," Analeth answers easily.

"The vermin," he insists, "I shouldn't be -- "

"Drink your tea, Frodo," says Analeth. Ioreth has handed a warm mug to Analeth, who in turn places it in Frodo's hands. "It's best to try to get the whole thing down quickly, and I'll give you a drink of clean water afterwards. You'll see, it'll make you feel much easier."

Frodo drinks quickly, as instructed. The liquid tastes of anise and tobacco and goes down easily at first, like smoking a pipe, but leaves an aftertaste like ashes. Frodo chokes but does not cough it up, and Analeth hands him a cup of water to wash it down, as promised. The two of them sit in silence for a few minutes as Ioreth and a man Frodo doesn't recognize carry in a tub with steaming water. The man goes out.

"May I cut off this last bit now, Frodo?" Analeth asks. "It won't take two seconds." He nods. She lifts him off the chair and back on again by himself, then takes up the scissors and spends another ten seconds removing the last of his curls. She comes around to face him again and reaches a hand to brush through the stubble that remains. It feels oddly prickly and he is again aware of the itch, but does not move to scratch at it. "Not so pretty as before," she sighs, "but Ioreth is right, it'll grow back soon enough. For now we're interested in getting you clean and comfortable." She smiles. "The bath is ready if you are, Frodo."

Frodo has tried to keep the thought of taking off his clothes in front of these two women out of his mind, but putting it off any more won't do any good, and he does long to feel warm and clean again. He shrugs and moves to stand. His energy is less now and he nearly trips coming down from the man-sized chair, but Analeth steadies him, then lets go. She turns away and walks to another corner of the room.

Frodo is somewhat relieved to see that Ioreth, standing a few feet away at the bath, stares only at his feet. Even as he clumsily undresses and tries to hold his clothes in front of him, her gaze barely shifts up. "You left the hair on his feet then," she says to Analeth.

"He only had them on his head."

Ioreth nods. "Not doing any harm, I suppose. Still, strange looking, don't you think?"

Frodo doesn't turn around to see Analeth's reaction. He has stripped completely by now there is an uncomfortable pause before the old woman finally looks up to his face, and then sighs in exasperation. "Come, come, then," she says, "just set those filthy things down on the chair so we can destroy them with the hair, and stop acting so nervous. You've nothing we haven't seen before."

Frodo does not believe this but also does not suppose the she has purposefully lied. She probably has a set store of phrases she uses to deal with all the nervous males who come through this place. It didn't occur to her before she spoke that a hobbit body is indeed something neither she nor Analeth has seen before. He places his bundle on the chair as directed and is suddenly grateful as he has never been before for the hair on his feet.

"That's fine," says Ioreth, and Frodo sees Analeth returning with a sack and a broom to dispose of his the darkened clothes and dark curls. "Now just step in the tub. You've taken long enough getting to this point, wouldn't you say?"

Frodo reflects vaguely that his actions are probably slowed down by the calming tea he's been made to drink, and now he is being reprimanded for taking too long about things. He does not answer her but steps in and takes no time at all in submerging himself beneath the suds.

Ioreth hands him a clean cloth. At first she allows him to wash himself, merely hovering and watching. But apparently he is too slow and too hesitant, for soon she takes the cloth back from him, and sets to scrubbing efficiently, thoroughly. She gives some orders but for the most part just reaches, tugs and moves him as she deems necessary. Again Frodo thinks of his childhood, his mother's hands on him in the tub, the sense of warmth and safety and trust that he will probably never feel again. Ioreth's touch, and his knowledge of why she is touching him, why she feels she has the right, is enough to send chills through Frodo's body, even as he is sunk up to his neck in warm water.

"You can stop shuddering then, I'm finished and you'll notice you're still in one piece. Just relax, I'm washing your hair now." She brings more water up over his head and works it through what remains of his hair along with a different kind of soap. "That's the dirt taken care of anyway," she says as she rinses it out. She then spends several minutes going through the very short hair with a very fine comb.

The oil Ioreth applies next makes Frodo's scalp tingles painfully and his eyes sting, even though it doesn't get in them. He thinks it must give off some kind of fume. Frodo still hasn't cried over what is being done to him, but it is difficult to hold back now. "Just a strange smell is all," Ioreth tells him, "but it gets the job done."

"It hurts," Frodo says.

"That's because it's working." She rubs more of it in with her fingers, coating the stubble. "We'll leave it in for a few more hours, and after that they'll all be dead and we can wash it out. We have another balm for your skin." With that she stands and moves away. "Analeth, good, you've got his clothes set out. You can see to the rest, yes?" Ioreth goes out, saying something about another new arrival at another of the Houses.

"You've had all the washing you need for now, Frodo," says Analeth. "Here's the fresh water. You can rinse off the soap yourself and then get dry and get dressed. Just try not to wash out any of the oil, all right?"

Frodo nods and complies, thankful that she has turned away to let him do at least this much for himself.

They are not proper clothes but a kind of patient's uniform, Frodo guesses; a short nightshirt, under linens, and simple, loose trousers; all in clean, white cotton. There are no buttons to be negotiated; Frodo simply pulls everything on. He is not surprised to find that they do not fit quite right, but it disturbs him to think that they have such a small version of the outfit on hand in the first place, to wonder why.

"Do you keep children here?" he asks with a distant kind of horror.

"There are some…" she begins. "Some of us spent time here as children."

Frodo has been fiddling with the drawstring of the odd trousers, sure that he will never feel secure or even clothed in these things. He looks back at Analeth now and sees that she too has turned to look at him again, her face open and guileless as always.

Frodo stands up straight and looks straight at her. Very slowly and distinctly, and with as much dignity as he can muster, Frodo says, "Analeth, hear me. I am not a child."

"Ah, we know that, Frodo. Don't you think we've heard of halflings before? Never thought I'd see one with my own eyes, but I'm glad that I have." She understands nothing. "Is it the clothes that bother you?" she asks. "That's just the closest fit we had on hand. We'll have them altered, or a new set made if that's not good enough. We want you to be comfortable, you know."

He shakes his head, steadies himself and tries again: "I'm not a child, and I'm not mad."

She does not claim to know this already. She says, after a pause, "We don't talk like that here." That isn't the problem. Frodo wishes they _would_ speak plainly. "It's not my place to say who's ill and who's well," she adds, "but I can see that you're suffering, Frodo, and I mean to help you. That's what we all want."

"I know," Frodo says, and quietly gives up trying to explain for now.

Analeth holds out a hand. "Will you let me show you to your room?" She speaks as if it were his choice.

"Yes," Frodo says, and takes her hand, and follows where he is led.


	4. The Hall

Pippin tries to tell himself that he is better off now than he has been since the breaking of the Fellowship, or perhaps even since Rivendell. He has a bed to sleep in, duties to keep him busy during the day, and a new friend, Beregond, to help him find his way in this new city. Gandalf leaves him alone with Denethor at times but is never far away, and so Pippin is not truly afraid, only nervous, uneasy. And he tries to tell himself that even this anxiousness is irrational.

Officially, he knows, they are all meant to be on the same side. So why does Pippin feel torn between the wills of the wizard, whom he trusts, and the Steward, to whom he has sworn his fealty? There should be no conflict, no choice to be made between them. They are on the side of good and light, Pippin thinks, with free men and hobbits and elves and dwarves. And probably ents. The other side is darkness and evil, orcs and wraiths, slavery and torment. That division is clear, and that choice is easy.

The tension between Gandalf and Denethor is subtler and is never quite acknowledged, so that Pippin is unable to speak of it to anyone else, to ask for advice, or even to work it out clearly in his own mind. When Denethor asks him to sing, he doesn't feel the panic and loathing from when his orc captors would threaten him and Merry, or when they would argue amongst themselves. He doesn't feel the deep dread that settled inside him when he heard the voice of Saruman at Isengard. But there is a shiver and a prickling in his neck and the tips of his fingers. It takes him a while to recognize that this is the same shiver he used to feel when Denethor's son, Boromir, would speak to Frodo, or look down at him. Both father and son know how to make the hobbits feel terribly small and helpless, without actually uttering an unkind or threatening word. Without naming or perhaps even knowing of them, Denethor makes Pippin think of all the things he has done wrong. (And Gandalf still has not forgiven him for looking into the Palantir, and Pippin wonders if Denethor knows, but he dares not ask either of them.) At times Pippin feels so wretched he doubts whether he even deserves to be on the side of good and light.

It's all too confusing, and it's all too large and strange and unfamiliar for one hobbit to negotiate alone. When the orcs held him prisoner, Pippin recalls, he was lost and hurt and he feared for his life, but at least he knew what side he was on, and at least Merry was always with him.

He has often wondered how Frodo could ever have conceived of leaving the Shire on his own; and even when Pippin is feeling at his most useless he is grateful to Merry for forming his Conspiracy, glad to have accompanied Frodo as far as he did. He still can't comprehend why Frodo again decided to leave them at Parth Galen, and even in all his uncertainty Pippin is grateful to Sam for not letting Frodo go alone. He hopes neither of them ever feels as alone as Pippin does now.

Pippin feels alone even when others are around, as now, when Gandalf is in the Hall with him, trying to convince Denethor, of what Pippin does not really understand. Not knowing where to stand between the two of them, he stands apart and keeps silent.

And then comes this young man, strong and handsome and radiating such assurance that the conflict between Gandalf and Denethor suddenly seems quite inconsequential. Here is the man Pippin and everyone else will follow. Here is the side he'll be on.

"Faramir," Denethor greets him, without rising from his throne, and he seems about to say more but then bites back his tongue and stares in surprise at his son.

Pippin knows this name: Faramir, Boromir's brother, of whom Gandalf has spoken highly. Pippin sees the resemblance, both in physical features and in the confidence with which both brothers carry themselves. But while Boromir could be overly bright and blustering, as if trying to prove something, Faramir's confidence is quiet and calm. And there is something else: that calm extends to the way he regards Pippin. All the other men of Minas Tirith have been startled by the appearance of the halfling. Some look away in embarrassment, some laugh or whisper to their friends, while others stare blankly. Faramir nods to him with a faint smile and a look of recognition. He greets Gandalf the same way, but he addresses the Steward.

"Father," he says, "I come bearing a great gift. We need no longer fear Sauron or his servants, for the Dark Lord's greatest weapon is come to Minas Tirith, to be used for good by the city's protectors."

Pippin's newfound trust waivers then, for this is surely not right. He has understood little of the great plans of wise men, but he recognizes this as Boromir's talk: the plan they didn't accept, the idea that led Frodo to set off alone toward Mordor. The shiver and the prickling return as Pippin thinks again of the almost predatory look Boromir used to give Frodo, of the fear that haunted Frodo in those last days before they separated. He thinks of Elrond's and Gandalf's insistence that the Ring could not be used for good, that it must not be taken to the White City. He looks to Gandalf to thunder against such folly now, but the wizard is silent, seemingly deep in concentration.

"The Ring of Power." Denethor sounds awed but somehow not surprised. "How came this to be?"

"You've come upon Frodo and Sam," Pippin cannot help blurting out, though he will not voice his fears, only his hopes. "Have you seen them, my lord? Are they safe?"

"They are not only safe," Faramir smiles assuredly at Pippin, "they have come with my men and me to Minas Tirith, and shall be honored guests of the city."

Pippin still knows that this is not right, that this is not the plan they decided to follow, but even so the joy is almost too much to bear. The idea of seeing Frodo safe and whole again, and with Sam as always by his side, makes Pippin want to jump with excitement.

"May I go to them, my lord?" And never mind that it is not his place to speak, for he must go to Frodo. Never mind that Pippin has sworn to serve Denethor and not his son, for Denethor's will no longer seems to matter. And try to ignore the creeping certainty that Frodo _cannot_ have given up his burden unless something went horribly, horribly wrong. This is all Pippin wants, to be with his dear cousin again.

"Not now," Faramir says. "They need time to recover from a long and arduous journey, and you and I should not interfere with the healing arts, master halfling."

_Horribly wrong._ But somehow Pippin manages to ignore the thought, and the shiver, for it is not his place to question Faramir's judgment, and he will be allowed to see Frodo soon.

"In any case," Faramir continues, "I would have you and Mithrandir remain here to speak to me more of this quest, and of the new direction it has now taken. Was there not a fourth, another kinsman of yours?"

"Meriadoc." Gandalf finally breaks his silence. "He remained at Edoras, but he may be sent for, along with the rest of our company.

"No," Faramir says decisively, "we will bring only the halfling. I do not trust these others, those who opposed my brother, to understand what must be done here or to respect my authority."

Again Pippin, even in his joy at the thought of seeing Merry, expects Gandalf to object. For is not Aragorn the true king of Gondor? And would it not be best to have _all_ of Frodo's allies here and together again? But Gandalf only nods, keeping his eyes on Faramir, and there seems to be a further communication and agreement there that the hobbit cannot quite comprehend. Pippin feels it as an almost physical shift, just at the edge of his perception, like a sudden heaviness and then a thinning in the air that leaves him unanchored and lightheaded. But then Pippin has decided -- or rather, there is no need to decide, Pippin simply _knows_ that from now on Faramir will be his anchor, and everyone else's. The knowledge brings him peace.


	5. The Bed

The dream has become familiar by now, but is just as terrifying as the first time. The details vary -- characters, colors, outcomes -- but the theme is always the same. Always there are loud noises and Frodo hears nothing. Always there is fire and Frodo feels frozen. Always there is chaos and Frodo stands still in the middle of it. Always Frodo is defenseless.

A tall figure towers above him. Frodo used to dream of Boromir, naturally, and sometimes Galadriel as she appeared to him at the mirror. Sometimes, more disturbingly, a trusted friend like Gandalf or Aragorn would threaten him. Since Ithilien it is always Faramir. Faramir with his eyes cold, indifferent to Frodo's person, fixated only on the Ring, hanging on its chain around Frodo's neck. As always, Frodo screams, and he raises his hands to defend himself, or to protect the Ring; it is really the same thing.

On the journey, in the wild, Frodo would usually awake to his own screams. He would be frightened, yes, but Sam would always be there beside him, clasping Frodo's hands together, holding him, telling him he was safe. Frodo would know that Sam held his hands to keep him from touching the Ring, but there was still comfort in the contact, in the firm, loving grip. It told him that Sam would protect him from anything, including his own frenzied actions. Even though Frodo's rational mind knew the dangers ahead might be greater than anything Sam could save him from, he would quiet and calm to that touch and those soft, confident words: "You're safe, Mr. Frodo, I'm here. I won't let you go."

He is awakened now not so much by the noise as by the jerk of pressure at his wrists. In the dream, he is unable to raise his hands to offer any form of resistance. In the bed, alone, with his eyes open, Frodo recognizes his other nightmare.

Because this too is becoming familiar: the bare room, the faint light of a clouded dawn through a latticed window; the bare bed, since Frodo has kicked away the blanket in his sleep. Frodo knows there is no powerful enemy and no mysterious force keeping his hands at his sides and so keeping his body in the bed. He knows it is only the leather restraints, fastened to his wrists and to the bed the night before and every night for the last week, just after he downs the draught that sends him quickly into a deep sleep. He knows he will accomplish nothing by struggling, that the bonds will not give way but will only cut more painfully into his wrists as he strains at them. But his knowledge of the futility of it all only makes him feel more helpless and so more angry. So he keeps on fighting, keeps on screaming, and thinks of nothing but the need to get free.

It isn't very long before Sam and Pippin come into the room. Frodo knows to stop screaming even though he can't stop himself from tugging at the restraints. Sam's face is all concern as he rushes to Frodo and the bed, and Frodo could almost weep with the relief of it and the anticipation of having his hands free. He'll embrace both of them then, and thank them for rescuing him.

Sam is kneeling by the bed now, smoothing Frodo's short hair and speaking in the voice Frodo remembers he used to find soothing. "I told them it'd be better if I could sleep in here with you. But see, I'm not so far away. You just call for me and I'll come. I won't let anyone hurt you."

"My hands, Sam," _they're hurting me_. "I need to get my hands free." Frodo is trying to keep his voice calm but it still comes out close to a shout.

"And you will, sir, in just a little while."

"Sam, please…"

"You just relax, now, and listen to me. You don't have to fight anymore, Mr. Frodo, it's over now." Sam's voice grows more distant. "I told them about the nightmares. They were supposed to give you something different last night, so you wouldn't have any dreams. I'll talk to Olegar about it; he knows all there is to know about herbs and medicines. We'll get this taken care of."

"Not the dream, Sam," Frodo says desperately. "This, now… I need…" But Sam is still stroking his face, not really listening. Frodo jerks his head away from Sam's hand, refusing to accept this kind of comfort. His eyes land on Pippin, still standing frozen in the doorway. "Help me," Frodo pleads.

"This is wrong, Sam." Pippin finally walks over to Frodo and takes hold of one of his hands.

Frodo squeezes too hard and Pippin winces. He tries to smile at Frodo but quickly averts his eyes. Still, he tells Sam, "You can't ask him to relax when he's tied up like this. I'm undoing them."

He says so but doesn't move.

"You know they say we can't," Sam answers.

"_They_ don't get to say what you and I can or cannot do." Pippin is fingering the buckle at Frodo's left wrist. "We're grown hobbits and we can make these decisions for ourselves." Pippin does not say that Frodo too is a grown hobbit and should not be subjected to this kind of treatment.

Frodo knows he should try to keep quiet for this. He thinks Pippin is winning and Frodo should wait out the argument calmly. Above all, he must not speak of the Ring, even if it is difficult sometimes to think of anything else. _Be calm,_ he tells himself, _be quiet, be sane._ But his impatience to be free combines with his anger at being talked over like a child, or like a thing. He tugs at the leather and at Pippin's hand and hisses, "Now, cousin."

Still Pippin waits nervously. If the enemy were to attack Frodo now, he would have no way of defending himself. And the presence of Sam and Pippin means very little on this account, since Pippin is weak and Sam no longer seems to want to help him.

Sam is trying to touch Frodo's face again but still ignores his words. He speaks only to Pippin, as if Frodo cannot understand, "It's not safe, not when he's like this. Not when he's fighting us like this."

So that's why they won't help him. No one worries anymore that he might attack Faramir or his soldiers, for there is really no hope left; but they do think he would attack Sam and Pippin. A danger to himself and others, Frodo has heard the words before, but he doesn't believe them. It hurts him to know that Sam does. Frodo looks to Pippin again and waits for his response, some words on Frodo's behalf. But Pippin is silent. He looks down at Frodo with his eyes full of tears, indecision, and helplessness.

"Please." Frodo realizes as he speaks that he too is crying now. His voice is ragged from screaming and emotion. "Sam, I promise you I'm not dangerous. I never… it was only the one time. You must believe I won't try to do anything to you."

Sam looks surprised. "Of course not, Mr. Frodo. Did you think I was worried about me? It's you as could get hurt. Don't you remember why they started doing this in the first place?"

The hand at Frodo's face moves down to his neck and then slides the loose nightshirt a few inches down. Frodo feels a stinging under Sam's fingers and looks down to see red marks on his own chest. It is only now that his body stills, as his mind fights off the haze of anger combined with sedation, struggles to make sense of what he is seeing.

He raises his eyes to Sam's face. Ah, and all three of them are crying now. "You bit your nails down so close," Sam says tenderly, "you couldn't do much damage. Otherwise I think you'd've made yourself bleed. You were reaching for it in your sleep, you know. You started doing it before we came here, but since there's nothing for you to catch hold of now…"

Nothing to hold on to. Nothing. How long has it been, Frodo wonders, since any of them named the Ring aloud?

Frodo hears Sam's voice break as he goes on speaking, but he no longer registers more than fragments ("…that I could stay with you… said it was safe…"). Instead he hears the words Sam said earlier: _You don't have to fight anymore_. And finally understands them: _It's over now_.

If the enemy were to attack Frodo now, he would have no way of defending himself… But what is there left to defend? The Ring is gone, and Frodo is nothing without it. What enemy would even bother to attack him now? Why do any of them bother with him at all?

Frodo stops fighting. He stops trying to work out what is happening and why, stops hoping someone will come to his aid. He stops feeling ashamed. He releases all his tensed muscles and releases the loud sob that has been trapped in his throat. There are hands on his hands and on his face, but he doesn't know or care whose they are. He feels only emptiness. He hears but does not comprehend the voices, first trying to soothe and then growing increasingly anxious as Frodo fails to respond. And his eyes are open but he sees only bright white.

* * *

After a long while Frodo becomes aware of someone rubbing his back. He then knows that he is sitting up, held in another's embrace, sobbing into someone's shoulder. It is a relief to him to hear only one voice. And the voice does not lie to him, does not tell him that he is safe or that everything will be all right. It does not tell him to calm down or to stop weeping or to stop fighting. It only repeats two phrases over and over again: "I love you, Frodo" and "I'm sorry."

"Merry!" Frodo cries, and he hugs his cousin tightly, only then realizing that he finally has his hands free. He is sitting in the same bed, but he thinks he could get out of it if he had the strength, if he wanted to. "Merry, you've come."

"Yes, Frodo, I'm so sorry I didn't come sooner." At first all Frodo wants is to stay there in Merry's arms, but then comes the desire to see Merry's face, and Frodo reluctantly loosens his grip.

Merry is not crying, and Frodo quickly dries his own eyes on his sleeve in order to see more clearly. Frodo stares and Merry gingerly touches the side of Frodo's head. "They've cut your hair," he says.

There is almost no emotion in his voice, but Frodo's shame rushes back to him at the words and at the emotions warring on Merry's face, pity and horror for Frodo mixed with seething rage for the rest of the world. But what a horror Frodo must look, in his child's nightclothes, with his bloodshot eyes and his swollen face, naked without the dark curls he'd kept long for so many years. And what a horror he must have looked when Merry first came into the room. Was that early on, he wonders, when he was writhing and begging? Or after, when he was insensible, bawling like an infant?

Frodo looks down because he can no longer hold his cousin's gaze, and he sees that the red marks on his chest are still exposed. Merry is probably seeing them and wondering. Frodo tugs the nightshirt into place and turns away. He would like to leave, or disappear altogether, but of course this is not up to him.

"Mine and Sam's," he says, somewhat surprised to realize that Sam is still in the room with them. He doesn't give much thought to where Pippin might have gone. "There were lice."

"I know." Merry is touching his hair again, perhaps not quite disgusted with him. "Sam told me last night. It's just strange getting used to, it looks so different on you."

But why are they talking about this, of all the things that are strange and wrong? Frodo catches Merry's hand and pulls it down, but finds he is able to face him again. A doubt crosses his mind. "Last night? Have you been here long?" _And why didn't you come and help me before?_ "Pip told me you were away in Rohan with… the others." No one has given it to him as a rule, but he feels instinctively that he is not meant to utter Aragorn's name, even here among friends, or among those who were once his friends.

"I was there, but Gandalf sent for me with the message that you and Sam had been found and couldn't I come to Minas Tirith to be with you. And of course I came at once. I arrived yesterday just after dark." Merry's words are tumbling over themselves and he seems embarrassed for the first time. "And they said I wouldn't want to see you then because you'd just eaten and they gave you some tea to help you relax, but I said I had to, I had to see you and know you were alive."

"So you were here? In this room?" How can Merry stand to look at him?

"Yes." But Merry keeps looking Frodo in the eye. And Frodo wants to look anywhere else but doesn't want to disappoint Merry yet again. "But you weren't yourself. You didn't know me."

Frodo's face is hot, and he wants to _be_ anywhere else, but he doesn't want to leave Merry. "I don't remember," he says softly, "I'm sorry."

"Nothing for _you_ to be sorry about, sir." Frodo had forgotten about Sam's presence again. It is a relief to shift his gaze away from Merry for a moment. "It's like Mr. Merry said, you weren't yourself then."

"I'm never myself anymore, am I?"

Merry says, "None of us are quite the same as we were before, but I'll take this morning's Frodo over the one I saw last night, thank you very much."

Frodo doesn't remember Merry's earlier visit, doesn't remember anything from the night before after beginning his supper. He shudders to think what could have been worse than the spectacle Merry has witnessed this morning. "Was I very upset?" he asks. He hates knowing there are times when he is completely out of control. "Was I screaming?"

"No, dear," Merry replies sadly, "you weren't fighting at all. That was what was so awful about it." Sam looks cross at this but says nothing. Merry lowers his voice; and, though the door is closed and the walls are thick, Frodo thinks this is wise. "You're right to struggle, Frodo, you're right to be angry. We all need to be fighting against what Faramir is trying to do."

"Mr. Merry, we talked about this already." Sam's tone seems to say that if any further discussion needs to be had on this matter, it had better not be in the lunatic's presence. For some reason Frodo doesn't fully comprehend, he smiles at both of them, hoping they will not argue any more.

"I'm so glad you've come, Merry, and the four of us can be together again." He doesn't really feel glad of anything, but he's beginning to understand that much pretending to be glad will be expected of him, if he's ever to be considered healthy and safe. And he does want to put his friends at ease. The tension between Merry and Sam is uncomfortable for him.

The door opens (without a knock) and Pippin enters, carrying a tray of food. Ioreth comes behind him and stands in the doorway. "You're safe for this once, Merry," Pippin announces. "Ioreth says she won't tell Gandalf or Faramir you acted against their orders. So it looks like you'll stay out of the dungeon for another day, at least."

Merry and Sam haven't said anything about Merry being in trouble. Frodo wonders vaguely about the details of the orders from above. Under precisely what conditions are his friends permitted to unbind his hands?

"Good to see you're feeling better, Frodo," Pippin adds cheerily. He does not seem like the same hobbit who cried at Frodo's bedside… how long ago was it?

"What about you, Pippin?" Frodo is surprised at the bitterness in Merry's voice. He's never known Merry to speak this way to their younger cousin. "Will you be informing on me when you report back to Lord Faramir for duty?"

"Now, you hold your tongue, Master Meriadoc," Ioreth intervenes. "You've caused enough trouble for one day. And Master Frodo's had enough excitement for one morning, I should think. I'll see to his breakfast. There's breakfast for the three of you in Sam's room, next door."

"Good then," says Merry, "we can bring it in here and have a meal for just the four of us. Just like old times, eh, Frodo?"

"I said I'd see to Frodo," Ioreth replies firmly. "That's my job, after all."

"Begging your pardon, mistress," says Sam, "but would it do so much harm for us to stay here with him? Maybe even just a one of us" -- there is in angry glance from Merry at this -- "so he doesn't think we've left 'im alone?"

They're talking over and about him again. Four strong wills conflicting, and Frodo's own will isn't even taken into account. No one asks him whether he'd prefer to be with Sam or with Merry, or whether he'd rather not have his breakfast (and his morning dose of tea, which no one has mentioned but which is sitting there on the tray) at all. Not that that's an option.

Frodo wants out, away from the raised voices. In truth he wants out of this room and this House altogether, though no one has said whether that will ever happen.

He sees that the door of the room, usually locked from the outside, is hanging open. He finds that no one and nothing is holding him, and he's able to stand. Hands are on him again almost immediately, and although he resents the control they all have over him, it's just as well. His knees feel weak and the dizziness is overwhelming, and he leans heavily into the arms that wrap around him now, before even realizing that they are Sam's.

"Where are you going, sir?"

"I don't know." Freedom would mean nothing anyway, as Frodo has nowhere to go, no reason to do anything but what they tell him to.

And the knowledge comes to him, simple as water from a spring or blood from a wound, that nothing he or any of them does now will make any difference at all. Frodo can kick and scream, Sam and Pippin can come and watch him, and Merry might even be as brave as to release his bonds and say words that sound true. But there it is: Frodo is still a prisoner, still a failure, still a wreck of himself.

He lets Sam help him to sit down again on the bed. When the dizziness fades Frodo pulls away from Sam, brings his legs up on the bed and shrinks toward the wall. "I don't know," he says again, though he no longer knows what question he is trying to answer. "Please leave me alone."

"There then," Ioreth says with an air of finality, "you've heard Master Frodo, young hobbits. He wants some peace and quiet. Maybe if he's feeling stronger later in the day then one of you can came back and see him. But this kind of crowding and excitement isn't what he needs. Your breakfast is waiting next door, as I said."

There is a silence and a stillness in the room for some moments. Frodo imagines trying again for the door, fighting off anyone who tries to hold him back. Finding Faramir, somehow, and not giving up until he holds the Ring again. _If I tried for it now_, he thinks, _even Merry would be helping to hold me down while they strap me back in._ Frodo holds as still as he can and avoids the other hobbits' eyes. Then Sam reaches for Frodo's hand, and when Frodo again pulls away the stillness breaks. Sam stands, and he and Pippin walk meekly to the door. Merry lingers last, and when Frodo finally looks up at him Merry speaks quickly, aware of Ioreth's disapproving glare, "I'm sorry, Frodo." He walks out and Ioreth shuts the door behind him.


	6. The Room

"Gandalf, please," Frodo whispers, looking down, "make him go away."

Faramir smiles. The wizard can't and won't _make_ him do anything at this point, nor will anyone else, and Frodo needs to understand this. Surely it will bring Frodo peace to put other possibilities out of his mind. But once again, rather than state the obvious facts as they are, Mithrandir answers with a seemingly neutral question: "Why do you wish for him to leave, Frodo?"

Frodo silently shakes his head, and then Faramir realizes that Frodo is shaking slightly all over, still staring at the floor.

Faramir considers walking out of the room, but he stays put, a few yards' distance from the chairs where halfling and wizard sit facing each other. The room is small and windowless but, unlike the austere chamber where Frodo sleeps, Faramir considers it comfortable. There are thick rugs on the floor and a few simple tapestries on the walls, all in rich dark colors. Faramir feels it is unusually warm and cozy for Minas Tirith. Even the child's chair in which Frodo sits is soft with cushions. Frodo may act as if he's being tormented, but Faramir feels no guilt. He is compassionate, doing everything possible to help the halfling adjust to his new life.

This is not the first time Faramir has come to watch the two of them in this room. He comes perhaps once per week and is able to observe changes in Frodo each time. He doesn't interfere in their discussions but stands or sits silently off to one side. Faramir and Mithrandir have spoken of the issue and agreed that it will do Frodo good to get used to the presence of his new lord, the Ring's new master, the Ring itself.

For the most part, Faramir is quite satisfied with the course of events since his return to Minas Tirith. His father's initial reaction was more or less what he had imagined, but not less to be relished for all that. Faramir feels as though he has finally stepped out of his brother's shadow, but the light that bathes him now comes not from his father's countenance, which was never really capable of showing joy and love. No, the brighter, purer light seems to come from within Faramir, or perhaps from the Ring that now hangs at his neck, which is more or less the same thing. He feels no separation, no distinction, between that power and beauty and his own being. He shines.

Denethor expected him to hand it over at once, but Faramir silenced all protests with no more than force of will and newfound power. It would be absurd to place such a weapon in the hands of such a sad, weak failure of a man. As absurd as it would have been to leave it with this ridiculously serious little halfling, so determined to carry out his "mission of secrecy" yet clearly having no conception of the road that lay ahead of him. As dangerous to entrust the Ring to the bitter old widower as to return it to that hideous wreck of a person that had cowered at Frodo's side.

Gollum had screamed when Faramir had lifted the chain from around the unconscious halfling's neck. Probably he'd had a plan to wrest the treasure from the halflings himself, but knew he stood no chance against the heavily armed men. Faramir didn't hesitate to slit the creature's throat then, and he doesn't regret it now.

"You know that Faramir wants to help you," Mithrandir tells Frodo.

"I don't believe you," Frodo says coldly.

"Have I ever lied to you, Frodo?"

"No, I mean I don't believe _in_ you. I saw you fall, Gandalf, and even if I hadn't, I didn't... you're not… I saw you fall, and I mourned you. We all did. And then I went on and made my own decisions because you weren't there to guide us anymore. And everything was falling apart."

"And how did you decide to go on to Mordor alone, without the warriors who could have protected you?"

"Without -- " Frodo shoots a nervous glance at Faramir, then looks down at his hands again. He begins rocking slightly in his chair, perhaps trying to subsume the fearful tremor into a more controlled motion.

"What were you thinking of then?" the wizard persists.

"I saw things in Lothlorien. The Lady Galadriel…"

"What did you see?"

"…And I thought of you, and I tried to imagine what you might have counseled me to do."

"And do you believe you made the right decision? Do you think what you did was wise?"

Frodo is rocking more and the chair starts to tip. Mithrandir touches Frodo's shoulder and he is still again, except for his mouth, twitching as he searches for the words he wants. "Not _wise_," he tries finally.

"Do you think now that I would have counseled you to do this?"

Another long pause. Frodo is clearly distressed and Faramir is tempted to intervene, but he trusts Mithrandir's judgment that all of this is to a purpose. "I think," says Frodo, "I think, yes, perhaps not you. I think my old friend, Gandalf the Grey, might have told me to go, to take Sam with me and to leave the rest, as I did.

"Why, Frodo?" asks Gandalf the White. "Why not trust Aragorn and Boromir? Was it not agreed at the Council of Elrond that they would help you to fulfill your quest?"

Frodo nearly growls, "I could not possibly trust both of them."

"Why not, Frodo?"

"You _know_."

Mithrandir's voice is as calm, firm, and pitiless as ever. "Tell me why you could not trust these men," he commands.

"I cannot speak of it. Not here, not with him here. Please, Gandalf."

It is easy, Faramir thinks, frighteningly easy and obvious to all three of them. Saying it out loud will reveal nothing they don't already know. And yet Frodo must be made to say it, to submit to superior judgment, to recognize his mistake.

"Frodo," Mithrandir says, "you know you can always speak the truth in this room. What are you afraid will happen?"

Frodo still will not answer but knows he will have to speak. "My head hurts," he complains, "I'm tired."

Mithrandir smiles. "So you say whenever we come to something you prefer not to speak about."

"It hurts all the time!"

"That comes from your spirit's resistance."

"You see," Frodo hisses, "you say I can speak the truth, you say I have nothing to fear and then you threaten me with this, this… I don't even know how you do it, all of you, but you're hurting me, still, and I've done nothing wrong. _Nothing._"

"Hush." Frodo is trying to pull away but still the wizard's grip on his shoulder tightens. "We are not doing this to you, Frodo. You do it to yourself when you resist the truth like this."

Frodo stills, waits for several moments. "If I say it, will you leave me alone?"

""It will bring you relief to say it."

"And I won't have to talk to you again till tomorrow?"

Mithrandir shakes his head.

Frodo takes a breath and then plunges in. "I was wrong. I should have given it up, given it to Boromir or brought it here to Minas Tirith myself, I don't know, but I should have trusted him and he needn't -- No one should ever have needed to take it from me, and I would have been all right then, and Boromir needn't have died." He pauses and, for the first time, looks directly at Faramir. "I'm sorry," he says. "I should have known better." Then drops his head again.

For the first time in the long meeting, Mithrandir looks satisfied. He reaches out to fully embrace the hobbit, as if to reward him for finally delivering the correct answer.

Faramir recognizes this as the successful resolution of an exercise, the way the healer likes for every one of these encounters to end. He remembers how, in the first few weeks, Frodo would often be brought to the point of emotional collapse. Mithrandir valued such moments, when he would gather the weeping halfling in his arms, rub his back and rock him like a child until he quieted. He told Faramir that the comforting helped establish a bond of trust between healer and patient. He also said that the breakdowns themselves were a part of the healing process. All Frodo's barriers must be broken down and his spirit laid bare. This, Mithrandir said, was the ideal opportunity for the spirit to be reshaped, according to Faramir's own needs.

But such breakdowns seldom occur anymore. Mithrandir grumbles that Frodo has been drugged to the point that he is too far away from all his emotions; he's been able to lock his spirit in a box and no one can touch it. Faramir does not argue with his counselor, who is clearly on the right side, but he hopes there might be another explanation for the change. He hopes it means that Frodo is actually beginning to recover, and that speaking about giving up the Ring is no longer the trial that it once was for him.

Frodo may have trembled and whined today, but he has given up his resistance at the last without needing to fall apart. Even now he is dry-eyed, wary and stiff in Mithrandir's arms. He suffers the wizard to hold him for some moments and to whisper some words of encouragement, but before long he twists away, and stands apart from both of them, looking toward the door. "I want to go to my room now," he says, more loudly than is necessary. "Will you -- You said you'd let me go if I, if I said it."

Faramir walks casually to the door, noting with approval that Frodo, for all the hostility that remains, no longer tries to escape the room or to claim any rights to himself, but waits for permission from others. Seeing that there is someone outside waiting to escort Frodo back to his room, Faramir nods to Mithrandir.

"Faramir," says the wizard, "would you wait here with Frodo for a moment? I'd like to have a word with this girl." He steps outside the door again, and Faramir is pained to see the look of panic and abandonment on Frodo's face.

Faramir knows to keep his distance, even moving away from the door so as not to make Frodo feel more trapped. Still, less sure of himself than Mithrandir as to how to deal with this hard and yet vulnerable creature, Faramir hesitates before speaking. "I've done my best with this situation, Frodo," he says quietly. "I've tried to make it easier for you. I hope you understand that."

Frodo's mouth works for a while before any words will come. He is looking at the ground. "It isn't easy," he says.

"I don't want you to think… Nothing that's happened has been meant as a punishment for you. I know you've heard this many times and I know it must be difficult for you to believe, because you still seem to be in pain, but I speak the truth. I really do want for you to be happy, and healthy. That is what Gandalf and Ioreth and your Samwise and all of us are working for. And we need your help; we need you to work for it as well."

"I don't want to talk to you anymore." Frodo has his arms crossed and is rubbing at the skin of his forearms with his fingers, although not scratching or digging in with his nails, as he used to do. Faramir is about to go to him and pull his arms apart, but at that moment Mithrandir opens the door again, and nods to Frodo, giving him permission to leave.

Frodo walks to the door quickly, without looking up. But before he goes out he says, to both and neither of them, "I still don't believe."


	7. The Corridor

Frodo had expected, if the Ring were ever taken from him, that the world would end soon after, or at least it would end for him. There would be blood and fire, torment and death, screaming and then silence.

Instead there is this prolonged numbness. Instead there is routine. Frodo has been waiting for the arrival of Sauron's armies, for Faramir to fade into a shadow of himself before surrendering his country, its citizens, and its prisoners to the Dark Lord. In the meantime, he sees Gandalf twice every morning.

The first meeting takes place in Frodo's bedroom, a short time after breakfast and his morning dose of medicine, and afterwards Frodo remembers little of what has gone on. He believes Gandalf does most of the talking then. He also has a notion that there are times when he repeats the Gandalf's words, or chants along him. Sometimes he wakes with strange words on his lips, or catches himself murmuring fragments of them during the long, empty hours he spends alone in his room. But his waking mind does not recall the words or comprehend their meaning, and Frodo prefers not to think too closely on any of it.

Each day, some hours later, Frodo walks down the corridor from his bare cell to the soft, suffocating room where the wizard works at tricking him, catching him up in his own words, trying to make him believe he is wrong about everything, was wrong from the first to think the task of dealing with the Ring was ever really his. These meetings with Gandalf are the only time when Frodo offers real resistance to the whole program of discipline and domination that this House offers him. It is all very well for Faramir and Ioreth and the rest, well intentioned perhaps, but strangers and enemies at the last, to tell him he is better off for having "given it up" (for no one speaks of the violence, no one speaks anymore of the way he was beaten and his treasure was stolen from him). But Gandalf should not be doing this. Gandalf is his true friend and was Bilbo's before, and Frodo _will not_ believe that everything Gandalf told him before was lies. So he argues, he shakes with frustration, he refuses to submit.

It seldom lasts for more than an hour, but Frodo is always exhausted by the time he leaves the soft room, eager to be out in the corridor on his way back to the place where he sleeps, the only place he is allowed to be alone.

Someone always walks with him in the corridor. Sometimes Gandalf himself, sometimes Analeth or Ioreth or any of the others; he hasn't bothered to learn all the names of the calm, quiet women and men who tend to him and the other patients here in the House. Sometimes he sees one of the others walking to or from a healing room or a bath. They are mostly grown men -- warriors, Analeth told him once, needing to recover from the horrors of battle. But there are others, including some women, and three times he has seen a child. It is difficult for Frodo to judge the humans' ages, but this boy must be quite young, for he is smaller than Frodo. The other patients frighten Frodo with their absence, their indifference, as they are led up and down the corridor. This boy is always present, always aware, and frightens Frodo with his anger. He is the only other patient who has made eye contact with the hobbit. Frodo wonders which he himself resembles more, the defeated warriors or the rebellious child.

The other hobbits aren't normally here at this time of day, although they might come to see him in the afternoon. Frodo doesn't get to choose whether they come into his room or not. His friends all try to be cheerful, and Pippin can nearly pull it off. It's more strained with Merry and Sam, and Frodo senses a tension between the two of them but cannot quite pin down what it springs from. They speak of anything but the Ring, and Frodo thinks of nothing but the Ring, when he's able to think clearly at all, so really they have nothing to say to each other. Most of the time Frodo keeps quiet and waits for them to go away.

At night someone brings him a syrupy drink and binds his wrists to the bed. The restraints do not leave marks if he does not struggle in them. He knows the young boy's wrists are discolored from chafing and bruises, but Frodo's are almost as pale as the rest of his skin. Some nights he'll try to argue against it. Tell the attendant, for instance, that he hasn't scratched at his neck in two months. Well, they might answer back, and how does he know that's not just because he's been bound? He truly doesn't believe he would hurt himself, but he doesn't know how to prove it either, so he keeps quiet then and lets them do it. The draught takes effect quickly, and he gratefully slips into oblivion. He's gotten used to waking in the restraints, unable to get up, to turn on his side, to scratch an itch or stretch his limbs. He waits calmly in the morning, knowing they follow a strict schedule and someone will be in to free him by the time the sunlight through the window reaches the edge of the rug by the door.

They bring him three meals a day, and it is less than he ever ate at home in the Shire but more than he had on the quest (the failed quest). Sam would cause a scandal if he knew, but Frodo seldom finishes the meals they bring him. There is little taste in it for him, and he sees little point in eating it, or in doing much else, for that matter. He walks out to see Gandalf because they tell him to, and they do tell him to eat as well, but no one forces him if he tells them he isn't hungry. He suspects that if he told them he wasn't in the mood to visit the other room he'd be dragged there anyway. So he goes.

This has become the way of things. Someone tells him what to do. He might try to reason against it (for old times' sake, nostalgia for the days when he was considered a rational creature) but soon enough he acquiesces, and so violence has been avoided in recent weeks.

Most of the time it's easy. He drinks all the medicines they give him without protest, lest they try to administer them some other way. He doesn't ask what is in them, but he knows they are meant to calm him. Sometimes he feels drunk or sleepy but more often he feels distant, removed. He is aware of what goes on around him but not affected by it. His thoughts are slow and muddled. At times Gandalf seems impatient with him, when Frodo is unable to answer his questions, but Frodo doesn't bother to make excuses or explanations. He feels his healers should be doing a better job talking amongst themselves. If Gandalf wants Frodo to have his wits more about him, he should tell the others not to have him drugged, rather than take his annoyance out on Frodo. But Gandalf's annoyance over such matters amounts to little more than stern looks and bristling eyebrows, and Frodo is not overly concerned.

Most of the time it's easy, but today Faramir was in the room with them. Off to the side, silent, observing. So Frodo was meant to ignore him, meant to act _naturally_, as if the object of his every desire were not quite suddenly within fighting distance. Frodo's mind and body were at war. He longed to attack the man, to grab for the prize hanging at his neck, and hang the consequences. What strength of will it took to remain seated in the chair facing Gandalf, and at the same time it was no effort at all. For there was a veil between him and any such rash action these days, or better yet a thick padding, and Frodo sat still. He twitched a bit, of course, and his eyes darted often to the chain and the precise spot where he knew the Ring to be hidden. But he knew as well as Faramir and Gandalf did that he would not rise from his place.

It was hopeless, he knew, and in the end there was some cold comfort in that. There was no longer any hope of destroying the Ring, so it was no longer Frodo's responsibility to try. He still wanted to take it for himself, of course, but there was no longer any pretext that by doing so he was attempting to save Middle-earth. He was hungry, he was greedy, his aims were no higher than Gollum's, and probably lower than Faramir's. Faramir meant to use it as a weapon against the great enemy, or so everyone kept telling him. Frodo sat still.

And all the while Gandalf tormented him with his questions, and Faramir looked calm and relaxed, and Frodo squirmed and argued but did not get up, and after an eternity and a few moments more, he was told he could return to his room.

The corridor is not long, but he takes small steps, and the walk drags on. A tall woman walks with him.

"I could walk this much on my own," he says, not caring whether she is listening. They used to hold on to his arm or shoulder to steer him along the short walk, but they've left off that by now and Frodo is glad not to have anyone else's hands on him. He runs a hand along the wall and that is enough to steady him when he trips. He adds halfheartedly, "I know the way by now at least."

"Course you do," says a now familiar voice, "but then we'd miss your company."

Analeth, then. The chatty one.

"You don't need to go straight back, you know," she says.

"What?"

"To your room. You've a little time yet before I bring you your meal. We could walk a bit more. You haven't seen much of the House yet."

Frodo has seen enough.

"I could show you the kitchen, if you'd like, or Ioreth's and my room."

There is something strange and surprising in this, but Frodo can't think through what it is. "I'm very tired," he says, without much hope of winning the argument.

"What, from sitting in a room?"

"_Yes._"

"Tired of talking, probably, but you could stand to move more than you do. Only way to get stronger, you know."

Frodo remembers the terrifying moments he spent alone in the room with Faramir while Gandalf talked to the girl outside. "Did Gandalf tell you to do this?"

She is not offended. "He did mention it, but it was something your halfling friends and I had thought of before. They tell me you used to adore roaming around in your own country. Why not just walk as far as the kitchen with me, and then we'll come back. A bit more each day, and see about getting some of your old strength back. You could spend some more time in the gardens as well. You know your Sam is always there."

It is strange to think about what Sam and the others do when they are not tiptoeing around Frodo in his room. Stranger still to think of his friends discussing him -- his health, his old habits, how much he's changed -- with strangers like this woman.

"My head hurts," Frodo tries.

"That's from not getting enough fresh air."

They all have these easy answers; they find it easy to dismiss his complaints. Analeth walks right past the door where Frodo is usually deposited, and he walks with her, since following along is easier than arguing, insisting that he be allowed to rest.

It is not dizziness or the weakness he used to feel in his knees, but just above that, sore muscles in his thighs as if he'd lifted heavy weights or run long miles the day before. It gives him a limp that does not favor one leg or the other but is simply awkward -- on the level floor. Once they start down the stairway, he fears his legs won't hold him. He wonders distantly if a fall down these stairs would be enough to end it.

"You've got the railing now, just try putting a little more weight on that hand so it isn't all on your legs. And I've got your other hand. You can lean on me if you need to."

He doesn't _need_ any of this. "Thank you," he says, but tries not to hold too tightly to her hand. By the time they reach the landing, halfway to the next floor down, he is breathing heavily but still standing.

"Did you see that there's a window here?" she says brightly. "It's a different view from the one in your room."

Frodo doesn't know what the view from his room looks like. He notices light or its absence, knows the pattern of shadow left by the iron grating and recognizes the same design here. It has been made to look decorative even though its purpose is clearly to prevent anyone from climbing out.

"I'm trying to see if I can spot Sam out there," she says, peering out, "but it's a ways down and my eyes aren't so good. Can you see him, Frodo?"

Frodo doesn't want to look out. It is too bewildering to think of the rest of the wide world going on as before, or almost as before, while he remains in this weird state of interruption, suspension. He keeps his eyes on Analeth instead, and asks, "Why do you share a room with Ioreth?"

"That's only normal for family, isn't it?"

"Family?" Frodo hasn't thought about a resemblance between the two of them. All the big people here seem similar to him.

"Ioreth is my grandmother, didn't you know?"

Frodo shakes his head. "I didn't think…" he begins, and stops. "What of your parents?"

"Ah, Frodo, that's a sad story and one that would bore you. Come, are you ready for the rest of the stairs yet?"

"I don't want to go down," he mutters. Somehow Gandalf has the power to make Frodo speak of anything and everything, but no one feels obligated to answer any of Frodo's questions. He tries another, a simpler one: "How old were you?"

"What?" Frodo has never seen Analeth look so uneasy. For the first time he wonders if she too has a special tea to drink every morning, if this is how she manages to smile through the long days.

"When you came here, when someone decided your spirit needed to be healed," he still can't say these words without a sneer, "how old were you?"

She stares back at him for a moment. "Nine."

"And you've been here every since?"

"Yes. Do you want to go back to your room now, Frodo?"

"I already told you I did." He pauses, considers relenting, now that he has what he wants. But there is something gratifying in seeing someone else made as vulnerable as he feels. He asks, "Are you cured now?"

Analeth takes a breath, but when she speaks the agitation is gone from her voice, the openness has returned to her face. “I am much happier now than when I came here,” she says. “There are hurts that never really go away, so the healers have told me and I came to accept it in the end. But I’ve been healed more than I ever thought was possible when… when I was in the middle of it.”

Frodo sees that he has already lost that slight power over her that he had seemed to hold, so very briefly. He scrabbles to regain it, charging, "But you’re not well, you’ve not been allowed to go home.”

To his frustration, she actually laughs quietly at this. “This is my home now,” she says easily. "Here, are you sure you don't want to walk with me any more?"

Frodo nods. He is trying to work through a thought and cannot be bothered to answer in words.

"Then let's start up again. Here, grab the railing."

They don't speak on the way up the stairs. At the top she seems to have forgotten their conversation; Frodo knows he never will. "Maybe we can get as far as the kitchen tomorrow," she proposes. "You'll see, it'll feel better when the rest of the House becomes more familiar -- "

"And I can start to think of it as home?"

"Well, why not, Frodo?" she says softly.

_Because I don't belong here._ And somehow thinking it is enough. He won't make any further attempt to disturb Analeth in her complacency. He can play along, he realizes suddenly, say what they want him to say and eat and drink what they want him to. But he doesn't have to accept it. _Because this will never be my home._ He feels stronger just thinking it. And when he is alone in his room he'll try saying it out loud, to see if this can replace the words Gandalf has given him to repeat. And having this truth to keep for himself will make it easier to say whatever untruths are called for when he is with others. He decides to attempt a lie now.

"Thank you, Analeth," he says as they reach his door again. "I believe the walk did make me feel better, for all that we didn't go so far. I'll try to walk a bit farther tomorrow, if you're with me again."

The look on her face, the pure elation she gains in believing she has helped him, is almost enough to make Frodo feel guilty for lying. But no, this is good, to know how easily she can be manipulated; it is much easier than trying to make her feel threatened. It will be harder to fool Gandalf, but Frodo thinks he can work at it.

"Of course," she says excitedly, "and whoever else comes. They'll all be so glad."

He nods and, with surprisingly little effort, smiles.

"You see, Frodo, it doesn't have to be every day the same thing. You see how you can come to feel better."

He steps inside and waits for her to leave.

"I'll be back with your food in a few minutes then." She smiles and walks away, and Frodo shuts the door.


	8. The Garden

Sam had found it hard to contain his excitement back in May, when Analeth told him Frodo might come join him sometimes in the flower garden. Even now that Frodo comes out nearly every afternoon, Sam still treasures the idea, looks forward to it, expects it to make him happy.

It would be like old times, Sam used to think, me digging up weeds and making room for the showy flowers to grow, and him nearby with a book, enjoying the weather and the peace of it, just like in his own garden at Bag End. And from time to time he'll look over at me and smile the way he used to, and everything will be all right.

It's been two months since Frodo made his first tentative steps outside. Now he comes most days and often stays for hours. Sometimes he walks the paths, with Sam or alone, and sometimes he does sit near Sam with a book (though Sam knows Frodo doesn't actually read now) on a bench or on the green grass. Frodo never speaks much or shows any real appreciation for the beauty of the place, which to Sam is breathtaking. Still, Sam thinks the fresh air and the peaceful setting must be doing him some good. But things are not all right, Sam comes to understand by the end of every encounter with his master. Probably nothing ever will be again, but Sam will keep hoping and keep working.

Olegar, the head gardener of the Houses of Healing, leads a team of ten other gardeners -- eleven, if one counts Sam -- and is really in charge of the care of not one but three large gardens. The largest is this one, the flower garden for the House for the Healing of the Spirit, the one where Sam spends most of his time and the only one where Frodo can join him.

Sam has only been a few times in the other flower garden, shared by the patients of two other Houses (Healing from Sickness and Healing from Wounds). It is similar to this one, but somewhat smaller, and at the edge of it there is no wall, only a low wooden fence with several gates in it, where visitors may enter or where patients may, if they choose, go out into the city.

The barriers around the Spirit garden -- in Sam's mind it is simply Frodo's garden -- are natural. The Houses are nestled in a corner of the city, in a narrow wedge between higher and lower levels. This garden is edged on one side by a cliff wall down to the lower level, on the other side by a wall reaching up to the next. Both are too high, too sheer and too smooth to climb up or down, and there is only one heavy door between the garden and the House. Even so, Sam never feels trapped when he works here. It is only when he sees the gates of the other garden, the easy way men and women walk in and out, that he begins to covet the freedom his master does not have. Sam was only a patient himself for a short time, taking food and rest in the first days after they were brought to the city. In the months since he has officially been under Olegar's orders, but the old man easily perceived Sam's preferences, and he seldom assigns him any work in that open garden.

The third garden is enclosed, in a secure and obvious way, by both the high wall of mountain and walls built up by men, with a single door to which Sam, recently, has been given a key. No patients are allowed inside and Sam usually finds his work there lonely and sad. Still, he feels it is necessary, and sometimes he even enjoys the sense of responsibility that comes with it.

It is called the herb garden, even though both vegetables and some herbs, such as dill and parsley, are grown in the so-called flower gardens as well, and even though the herb garden also houses trees and flowering plants. The herb garden is where they grow anything used in making medicines. And this is where Sam has the most to learn, for as well as he thought he knew the traditional remedies of the Shire, the healers of Gondor have uses for plants as familiar as garlic and ginger that Sam would never have guessed. On top of that, there are scores of unfamiliar plants, with strange names and leaves and flowers and uses that all have to be learned.

And they do have to be learned, for Sam intends to know as much about them as any of the gardeners or any of the healers of Minas Tirith do. He has to, if he ever expects them to let him take over caring for Frodo.

So he and Olegar spend hours together in the herb garden and in the little shed in the corner of it, where medicines are prepared out of leaves and roots and blossoms. Olegar tells Sam everything he knows about each plant and the two of them speculate about more, about plants from the Shire which Olegar has never seen but which Sam can describe with loving detail, about pipe-weed and the possible effects of smoking it, about how certain plants of Gondor might hold up in a slightly colder climate. They've even spoken once or twice about how the changing skies over Minas Tirith might affect this and all of the gardens. But later they both perceived that this was one of many subjects which were better left alone.

Here is the time Sam looks forward to each day. It is early afternoon now and as warm as it ever gets these days, the sun strong and the clouds relatively thin. Sam looks up from his work to see Frodo walking out alone, carrying a book under his arm as he often does. He sees Analeth standing at the door of the House, watching Frodo. She waves and Sam nods back.

"Good day to you, sir." Sam stands, wipes his hands on his breeches, and resists the urge to walk forward and catch hold of Frodo, to steady his slow, uncertain steps. Sam has been told it's better to let Frodo walk on his own as much as he can. "I'll be working here for a while yet. If you'd like to sit on the bench, maybe you could read or just wait for me." Sam knows the book is a prop, but they both know how to play along. "And we can go for a walk a little later."

Frodo doesn't answer but heads for the bench, and his steps seem stronger now that he has a specific destination. Sam helps him sit down -- he hasn't had instructions one way or another in this and he can't see how it could interfere with the healing process. Anyway, it helps make Sam feel good to offer even this little bit of support.

Mr. Frodo looks better than he used to, Sam thinks, and decides to say so. "Mr. Pippin did a fine job with your hair," he says, and he almost reaches for a curl but draws back, remembering that his hands are still dirty.

Frodo's hair had grown back and grown unruly, and this time Pippin had insisted on trimming it himself. "And don't let any of the Big Folk near him with their scissors," he'd said. "They have no understanding of hobbit style."

Frodo still doesn't speak but smiles shyly and touches a lock of Sam's hair, and Sam understands that with this he means to compliment Sam's new cut as well. "Well," Sam says, "it was kind of him to see to mine too, but you know I always kept it shorter. It didn't make so much of a difference on me. But I'm telling you the truth, sir: every time I see you, you look healthier, a little more like your old self."

_Telling him the truth_, well, that's not a simple thing, but there _is_ truth to it, Sam tells himself, trying not to think of what Mr. Merry would say to that.

Frodo squeezes Sam's hand and smiles again, and again Sam understands. The message this time is that Frodo has had as much interaction as he can stand for the moment. At this time of day he has just awoken from a nap, still needs time to find his voice and his consciousness again. Sam squeezes and smiles back and then withdraws, returns to the marigolds and lets Frodo sit and stare.

Marigolds never do take much work or attention; they're content to share their bright beauty with everyone, even if the soil is poor, whether or not they get sun every day, and whether or not they're tended to every day. That's part of the reason Sam convinced Olegar it was a good idea to use more of them in the garden. These are the flowers Sam put in the soil only two days ago, and already they look to be comfortably well established. Sam can see to them quickly and keep his thoughts and attentions on Frodo, who's _not_ been able to thrive in this strange place.

He _is_ looking better these days. His hair now is still much shorter than he ever wore it at home, but it no longer looks unnatural or unhealthy. The bruises have disappeared, of course, and you can barely see the scar on his lip. His face has filled out as he's rested and eaten more -- still perhaps not with normal hobbit enthusiasm, but more than he had since the beginning of the quest.

Sam is glad Pippin made an issue of the hair, for it must make Frodo feel healthier, if he chances to see a reflection of himself. Pippin and Merry are also responsible for Frodo beginning to wear something resembling hobbit clothing again. "It's a question of dignity," Merry had said, while Pippin, less confrontational, had put it in terms of Frodo's comfort. He still has the ill-fitting patient's dress of white nightclothes for the many hours he still spends in bed. But for little excursions such as these in the garden, and for longer ones such as are planned in the coming weeks, his kinsmen have taken measurements and been to a tailor. It is not a formal suit such as the two of them wear in the city, with bracers and waistcoat and too many buttons and layers to get tangled in, but something like what Sam wears in the garden or what Frodo used to wear on a lazy day at Bag End: simple brown breeches with two buttons, and a plain blue shirt that pulls easily over his head.

The shorn hair hadn't looked terrible on Sam because Sam had never looked so small and defenseless as Frodo did in those first weeks. Then Frodo's curls were suddenly gone and you couldn't look away from his face: the bruises and the swelling, the dark hollows under his eyes, the enormous confusion and fear in the eyes themselves.

Frodo's eyes, well, it's his eyes that make Sam a liar.

There's a blankness to them right now that Sam has come to know well, and unlike Merry and Pippin Sam has grown comfortable with this absence, this silence in his master. Unlike the others, Sam knows how to grow and prepare the herbs that bring Frodo this peace, how to mix them in exactly the right proportions and how to add that bit of spearmint that makes the taste easier to take. Sam is sometimes even trusted to bring the infusion to Frodo with his meal, though he wishes he were allowed to prepare the food as well. Maybe the tastes and smells of home cooking would help Frodo remember his old life and how much he cared for it.

Because that's really the problem, Sam thinks as he waters the plants: not the absence in Frodo's eyes when he looks out through the haze of sedation, but the cold distance that comes into them afterwards, when he's awake and aware. He looks as if he expects to be struck at any moment. He is resigned to suffer the violence but will not let himself feel it, or anything, too deeply; he will not let himself care. And Sam fears that the hobbit who wandered the length and breadth of the Shire in search of news from abroad, the one who delighted in speaking with the elves in their own language, who would risk life and limb for a meal of mushrooms, who used to laugh till he howled in his young relatives' company… the hobbit who loved and trusted Sam may be gone forever.

When Sam finishes with the marigolds and sets down the watering can, he looks up to see Frodo is no longer staring into the distance but looking back down at him. His eyes are more in focus than when he came out but haven't yet hardened, as they will after the drug wears off. He looks like he'd like to say something but doesn't know if the moment is right.

"What is it, sir? I'm listening."

Frodo looks away for a moment as if startled, but then recovers. "Marigold," he says, slowly and clearly.

Sam would like to jump up and hug Frodo then, but he stays where he is and contains his happiness in a broad grin. "That's right, sir, just like at home." He hesitates. "I wanted to plant some daisies alongside, but Olegar says they're too 'common', don't belong in a fancy garden in the city." He thinks to say something about daisies and lupines growing wild in the fields not far from here, but he sees that Frodo is waiting for a chance to speak again. Sam holds his tongue and waits.

"May," says Frodo.

It is July. And Sam can't help himself then. He goes to sit beside Frodo and wraps his arms around him. "That's all three of them: Marigold, Daisy, and May -- and there's my brothers and my old Gaffer too. They'll all be waiting for us when we get back, and ready to help out with anything you need, sir."

Frodo leans into Sam's embrace but he isn't weeping -- he seldom does anymore. It seems more a way of continuing to talk to Sam without having to look at him or away. Sam holds him close.

"Can we go home then, Sam?" Frodo's words are muffled, but Sam treasures the nearness, the vibration against his chest.

"That’s what I want," Sam says, "and I do think it's just a question of time now."

"This isn't my home."

"No sir, it surely isn't."

"I don't belong here."

Sam pauses. "Only for a little while longer."

Frodo pulls back enough to meet Sam's gaze and looks surprised. "I said it out loud," he says, and for the first time in a long time Sam doesn't follow his meaning. "And you're not angry with me," Frodo adds uncertainly.

"Never with you, sir."

Frodo sits and thinks for a minute, and Sam waits patiently for him, still somewhat confused but not about to pressure him to speak.

"What do you think Gandalf would say?" Frodo finally asks.

"No way to know but to ask him." But really Sam knows that Gandalf too wants the hobbits to return to the Shire, only he has yet to determine when and on what terms. So Sam adds, "I shouldn't be afraid to ask him either. With all he knows about hobbits, he understands well enough that none of us belongs here."

Frodo looks pleased but doubtful. "Won't they… won't they want to keep an eye on me?"

"I'm hoping they'll trust me to take care of that."

Frodo frowns but only a little, and he moves to stand. He looks steadier now than he did when he walked over, but now Sam feels there can be no harm in holding his master's hand as they begin to walk. He was not expecting anything like this conversation today and he wants Frodo to know how happy he is.

Frodo seems to be finished talking for now. Usually Sam is content to sit or walk with him in silence, but right now he is too excited to keep quiet, so he talks of what he knows and what he sees.

"I know not all the flowers here are familiar," he says, "and the way they cook their food is passing strange. Not that I'm complaining, mind you, but I don't think it would hurt you to have a meal or two cooked home-style, simple like we do in the Shire. And it wouldn't be so hard to do either. Gondor's far away from our own country, it's true, but the weather isn't all that different. Their winters don't get quite so cold is all. So I figure most of what grows here I could grow at home, and nearly all of what grows at home _could_ grow here and a good deal of it does, even if the people call it a weed. Did you know Mr. Merry found out pipe-weed taller and sweeter than at home grows in the hills outside the city? Only the people here don't think to smoke it."

Frodo hasn't asked for his pipe since he's been here, but if he did it wouldn't be allowed. Sam thinks Frodo is perhaps overly cautious with his requests, but at least avoiding the subject keeps him from feeling the full force of the prohibition. Sam isn't sure if he should have brought it up either, but Frodo doesn't seem to react, is probably not upset.

Sam happily changes the subject as another flower catches his eye. "And then there's other flowers as are treasured everywhere you go. Look and this one then." He stops walking and carefully takes hold of a large, perfect pink rose. "Can you smell it, Mr. Frodo? Just like I planted in your own garden at Bag End."

"It's lovely," Frodo murmurs, although Sam doesn't think he has really looked or smelled. The distance is coming into his eyes now, and into his manner. "Sam, could I walk alone for a while? Would that be all right?"

"Of course, sir," Sam answers, trying not to feel hurt. "You know the paths as well as anyone by now. These roses could do with some attention, I think. I'll be around here if you need me."

Frodo nods vaguely and steps away without another word.

It is not the silence, not the effect of the drug that makes Sam hate these afternoons in the garden. It is this, what happens when the drug wears off and Frodo remembers that he doesn't trust Sam, or anyone else. But if there is any hope for Frodo, Sam thinks, it is in the Shire. Gandalf and the healers of Minas Tirith have done their part, and soon it will be time for all the hobbits to do theirs. Merry and Pippin and Sam, of course, but also Mistress Esmeralda, and Fatty Bolger, all his relations, and the Gamgees and the Cottons too. And if Rosie Cotton is happy to welcome Sam home too, well, there's no harm in that.


	9. An Outing

Merry and Sam are arguing again, a few feet behind Frodo, talking as if he couldn't hear them. Frodo is at his most alert at this time of day -- just before supper and the sedative that always accompanies it -- and he knows exactly what Merry is trying to do, knows that something will have to be done to stop him. This outing is too important to be ruined by Merry's good intentions.

Frodo's legs ache and he half wishes he were back in his cell at the Houses of Healing, or in the garden with Sam. He walks there every day now, not so much because it feels good as because they've told him it's a part of the healing process. He does feel stronger than he did a few months ago, but he really isn't prepared for this. He should have tried to put it off for another week or two.

After luncheon and a short rest they left one soldier to stay with the ponies, and they've spent most of the afternoon hiking through the hills of Ithilien. This kind of terrain once meant an easy stroll for Frodo, but today the going has been difficult. And for all the humiliation he has suffered, Frodo still hates being the weak one, hates the solicitous looks, hates seeing the others consciously slowing their pace so as not to show up Frodo's physical limitations. Pippin in particular looks like he'd like to bound ahead, but instead he walks at Frodo's side, supports him when he stumbles, makes earnestly cheerful small talk.

It's become much easier to spend time with Sam, who doesn't demand anything of him, who no longer fills the silence between them with nervous talk or anything that would require a response from Frodo. More effort is required for walking with Pippin, but Frodo has also gotten much better at this, at playing along, talking and smiling and even laughing at the right places, pretending he is not in pain.

And he's reaped the rewards: a new level of freedom, increasing trust from the healers. Gandalf is cannier than the rest, as Frodo had expected. He frowns at the hobbit's smile from under thick eyebrows, and with his eyes he tells Frodo he knows it is all a façade. But he also seems to prefer the façade over open rebellion or sullenness. It is also confusing for Frodo at times, for it is one thing to decide he can say one thing and believe another, but Frodo never was a very good liar. And he is afraid all the time, either that others will notice his deceitfulness, or that he himself will come to believe whatever words he says aloud, will come to feel whatever emotions he projects on his face. He doesn't know how to keep his balance.

Still, it's been easier than Frodo expected, that first day on the stairs with Analeth. After a bit of experimentation he's figured out how to get things by appearing not to want them. A few days after he stopped asking them to let him sleep with his hands free, they finally did. The marks on his wrists are gone, and no new marks have appeared on his chest.

He's noticed a different taste to the tea he drinks at meals, and he knows the new drug isn't as strong. In truth he'd stopped minding the old one, and at times he misses the oblivion it used to bring him, the way it could make everything in the world go away. The old drug was like a blow to the head. The new one is more like a soft pillow -- or two, Frodo muses, one underneath to keep you comfortable and quiet on the bed, and one on top to take away the oxygen. It's effective but not quite as satisfying as the old method.

They let him decide how much time to spend in his room and how much in the garden, although there are hints about which decisions are correct, and Frodo has learned to follow them to avoid conflicts.

Walking with Pippin takes effort, but it's still not nearly as difficult as walking with Merry. Merry is tense; Merry is still almost openly angry. Merry is far too intelligent for his own good, and yet he seems to miss the strategic importance of the jovial front. So today he's trying to convince Sam not to make Frodo drink his tea at supper, that it will be a more enjoyable trip for all of them if Frodo is awake and present. Walking with Merry is exhausting, but Frodo knows no one else can convince him to be quiet. Frodo slows his steps, and the two bickering hobbits quickly catch up to him and Pippin, cutting off their conversation abruptly.

Frodo takes Merry's hand and says, "Walk with me, cousin, and don't be so unhappy. It's beautiful here."

It isn't terribly smooth, especially since this landscape is much less beautiful than it once was. The plants have suffered from the lack of sun and water. In truth, Frodo takes no pleasure in journeying again through this land. Still, Sam understands. He strikes up a conversation with Pippin and walks ahead with him, putting a discreet distance between the two groups.

Frodo lowers his voice and murmurs, "Really, Merry, _I'm_ supposed to be the one who's mad, or at least drugged out of my mind. You could stand to act with a little more sense than Mad Baggins, I should think."

Merry stares, and Frodo moves close to kiss his temple, taking the opportunity to whisper in his ear, "Do you really think they aren't watching us even here?"

Especially here, he might have said. But Merry will catch on, he always does. Frodo knows that today and tomorrow are a crucial test, an outing on which his and everyone's behavior will be observed and analyzed closely. Gandalf walks ahead of them, and the two soldiers who are still with them, Beregond and Anborn, keep a certain distance and act dumb. The idea must be to make the hobbits feel they're on their own and see how they respond. Frodo fears it will become an ordeal once they reach more familiar places, and of course that is the point. Will Frodo go into some kind of frenzy when he comes to the place where Faramir first overpowered them, or is he sufficiently healed that he can remain calm?

The other hobbits are being observed as well. Will Sam make sure Frodo takes his medicine, or will he yield to Merry's arguments? Will Merry try to hatch some absurd plot, or is he finally learning to follow the path others have set for them? Gandalf, Beregond, and Anborn are watching and listening, certainly, and Frodo suspects that Pippin too will be giving some kind of report to Faramir once they all return to Minas Tirith. All four accounts will then be compared in order to measure Pippin's truthfulness and loyalty.

As they walk on, Frodo watches all of this finally begin to register on Merry's face. It's a blessing that they still understand each other so well, after everything that's happened, because talking is often difficult for Frodo now, and talking out loud is dangerous. He remembers whispered words to each of the three. What he believed were confidences at the time were repeated back to him later and had to be examined and explained.

Frodo's next speech is addressed to Merry, but it is meant for all the spies as well. "Sam misses his Rosie," he says. "He tried telling me a few weeks ago, I think, in the garden."

"What happened? Was he afraid of upsetting you?"

"No, I think I was the one who was afraid." He tries to make his voice light. "Really I doubt anything could get me going now, what with all the herbs they've been feeding me." He'd hoped Merry might smile and is disappointed, but at least Frodo is getting the words out. "Things don't hit me with so much force anymore, and Sam knows that as well as anyone. Still, we'd already mentioned his family, and when I thought he was going to start talking about Rosie, it was…" he trails off, then begins again. "I'd been so focused on my own suffering these last months, and I just began thinking then about how much he's sacrificed in order to come with me, and to stay here with me while I went through all this... He doesn't really speak of it; none of you do." This gets him another startled look from Merry, but Frodo goes on. "He never told her he was going any farther away than Crickhollow, you know. I'd never thought of it, in all the excitement of the journey, but he'd never said anything to the Gaffer either, just as you never warned your parents, nor Pippin his."

Merry shrugs. "It didn't -- other things, secrecy I suppose, seemed more important at the time. Anyway, we had no idea what we were getting into, no notion we'd be gone this long."

"And what's it been now," Frodo asks, "nine months?"

"Closer to ten."

"They must think we're all dead."

Merry looks pained but smiles slightly. "I wouldn't be so sure of that," he says. "They knew Bilbo, after all."

"But think of the uncertainty of it," Frodo continues. "And you their only son and heir, and losing the rest of us at the same time. I can't even imagine…"

Merry is shaking his head.

"But of course you've thought about it," Frodo says. "I'm sorry to get so worked up and worry you any more. You understand what I mean though, don't you, Merry? You and Pippin and Sam all have people waiting for you back at home. He needs to marry Rosie and have a dozen babies or so, and you and Pippin have your own lives to lead, and you're stuck here because of me."

Merry looks like he wants to speak, but Frodo keeps talking, wanting to get the next part over with.

"I used to think I'd be locked up in that place for ever, but it's changing, you see? I'm… I suppose I'm getting better, as they said I would." Lying to Merry is not like lying to Analeth, Gandalf, or even Sam, any of the ones who expect this kind of talk from him. It is more painful, it feels like a betrayal; but at the same time Frodo knows it is not as serious, not a real lie, because Merry will be able to understand what Frodo really means. "I see Gandalf every day, and we talk, and I've been working so hard" -- his voice cracks on this -- "and it's actually making a difference, I think. And Sam learns everything he can from the healers, so they think he can take over for them when we leave. And they talk as if it could be soon, sometime in the next few months, while the weather is still good for traveling."

_You understand what I mean though, don't you, Merry? We are putting on a lovely play, and the happier we seem to be today and tomorrow, the sooner they'll let me go. I know you mean well, but please, don't put my freedom and yours in jeopardy by arguing with Sam about whether I can skip a dose. We'll talk about it later, once we get away from here._

Merry understands, and there is no need for him to say so. He answers what Frodo has said aloud. "We can stay here as long as you need, Frodo. We don't mind being 'stuck' with you anywhere. But I'm glad you're thinking and talking about going home."

Looking ahead, Frodo sees that Gandalf and the others have stopped at the crown of a hill. Pippin and Beregond are spreading out blankets on the ground, and Gandalf is helping Sam to prepare a fire.

Frodo and Merry linger along the path, far enough away for them to pretend their conversation is private, even though Frodo is fairly sure it is not.

"And it's not only the three of us who have things to do there," Merry adds, "or loved ones missing us." He turns to face Frodo and look him in the eyes. "Mum and Dad love you," he says. "You know that, don't you? You know they'd like nothing better than to have you back with us at the Hall?"

Frodo smiles, for this does not come as a surprise. He tries to avoid the subject, but Gandalf likes to make him talk about it too: What will you do once you leave? Who will you be, back in the Shire? Why should we let you go? Frodo has been testing acceptable reactions; the thing is not to sound worried. "Thank you, Merry. I -- I don't know how much good I'll be to anyone at home after all this. But we'll work out the details when we get there." That's right, he'll accept whatever life gives him. "Who knows what Fatty's been up to at Crickhollow, or the S-Bs at Bag End, for that matter. I wouldn't be surprised if Lobelia and Lotho had torn up all the Hill by now, digging for treasures they thought Bilbo had hidden away. Can't you just see her, though? Directing the workers around with her umbrella?… but Merry, whatever is it? No, you can't cry over Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, I won't permit it."

It was only a few tears before, but now Merry sobs. Frodo tries to quiet him, unsure whether he cares more about ending his cousin's distress or about keeping up the pretense of easy contentment.

"It's you, Frodo. It's you talking like yourself, like you used to back when… I hadn't thought of the Sackville-Bagginses since we left."

"And me talking like me upsets you?"

"It's --" Merry hugs him and tries his turn at whispering, though his voice is unsteady and louder than he probably would like. "I _miss_ you like this. Every time I think I'm getting a glimpse of my own dear Frodo, someone brings out some special tea, and it's like a curtain is drawn. You disappear again."

Frodo pulls away. "I understand," he says, "but it's harder than you think, doing without the tea. I'm not sure how to explain it, really, but it's tiring, being like this. I don't think I could stand it for more than an hour or two at a time. I can't think too much about what happened, you know. Or about what could have happened. I just can't seem to keep things together when I do."

_And it's a struggle, Merry, it's a constant battle to keep my thoughts on the safe subjects, to keep my feelings off my face, to keep from screaming. To pretend there's a Shire to go home to and the world isn't about to end. To pretend that I don't want it back. But I'll tell you about that some other time, when Faramir's spies aren't listening, if such a time ever comes._

"Come on, let's quit this heavy talk and go get something to eat," says Frodo, starting up toward the little camp. "And no more arguing with Sam or anyone else about what I get to drink, or soon enough they'll be making you drink it as well."

Joking is allowed, even if there's a bit of resentment underneath. The thing is to appear cheerful and complacent. Frodo's getting better at it all the time. He smiles broadly as they reach the others.

"How I've missed your cooking, Sam," he says fondly, pleased to find something to say that is not only appropriate and upbeat but also true. "This smells wonderful. What is it you're preparing for us today?"

Sam looks up from the pot he has been stirring and smiles back at Frodo. "I'm making us another rabbit stew," he says happily. "More of it this time, for Anborn and Beregond have shot enough coneys for all of us, while we were walking. And I thought ahead enough to bring a few carrots and onions and taters this time, besides herbs from the garden." Frodo is frozen still. "You remember that day, don't you, Mr. Frodo? The day we ate in this same place together? And I saw an oliphaunt?"

It must have been arranged, Frodo thinks, trying to fight off the sudden terror. It must have been Gandalf's idea, or possibly Faramir's -- another part of the test. It _cannot_ have been Sam's idea to call up the memory of their very last moments of freedom, the last time Frodo still hoped that it might be possible to carry out his quest. Along with the scent of the rich stew comes, of course, the memory of their discovery by Faramir, the person Frodo most hates in the world and the one he is expected to love as his personal rescuer from madness or death, and apart from that his ruler and, as the story is now told, savior of Gondor and all Middle-earth.

Frodo is aware of a silence. It is his turn to speak. Probably everyone is staring, waiting. Probably, whether Sam and the other hobbits realize it or not, everything depends on Frodo's behavior in these next few moments, his ability to stay in control. He seeks for words to fill the void.

"I remember, of course," he says haltingly. "It wasn't all bad, was it, Sam?" Is this the wrong thing to say? Does it sound as if he longs for the time before they met Faramir, when Frodo still held the Ring? "Our journey, I mean. We had a few good moments together. You'll have some adventures to tell folk when you get home. Did you ever imagine you and I would see an oliphaunt?"

He does not say, _Folk will think you mad if you ever try to tell them._ He does not say, _I'll never try to tell them. No one needs any more proof to decide about me._

"What was that like then, Sam? I never tire of hearing you tell it," says Pippin. And thank the Valar for Pippin, who for all his acceptance of Faramir's word still loves Frodo and knows how to take a bit of the pressure off him at this moment.

Frodo has glimpsed a look of sudden and intense understanding, regret, and, yes, love from Sam. But Sam goes back to tending the stew and speaks of the Haradrim army, their exotic costumes, their incredible beasts of burden, then of the daring raid by Faramir and his men.

Frodo can still feel Gandalf's eyes on him but is relieved not to have to speak. He realizes that he is still holding Merry's hand and that his grip has tightened in his panic. He concentrates on relaxing his hand again, and turns to Merry with an attempt at a reassuring smile. Merry's concerned face tells Frodo that the attempt is a failed one, but Frodo still feels he is coping quite well. _Look at me,_ he feels like saying, _I'm not screaming. I may be crushing your hand, Merry, and my heart may be racing, but I'm not raging, not quite. Not yet._

Frodo has stopped listening to Sam's words through conscious effort, but he notices when they cease, recognizes the need for him to speak again.

"Good then, we'll have another picnic." Surely they don't expect him to have listened to closely to Sam's story, to add his own account. "How long do you think it will be before we eat, Sam?" How long can he possibly be expected to stand in this place?

"Might be another hour or so, to get it cooked just right."

"We'll have a nice chance to rest then," says Pippin. "Well deserved, after such traipsing about all day." Pippin isn't tired, obviously, but he understands that Frodo is. "Why don't you sit down with us, both of you." He motions to Frodo and Merry. Frodo finds his body so tense and stiff that it is difficult to walk the short distance to the blanket, harder still to sit down between his cousins, and Merry has to support him as he does.

A thought occurs to him. "Sam," he says, not daring to look at Sam or anyone else, "as long as we're just waiting here, do you suppose I could…" -- _say it_ \-- "Do you suppose I could have my tea now?" He senses glances exchanged between Sam and Gandalf, between Merry and Pippin, but still he stares down at the blanket. "I know I usually have it with meals, so maybe it's better to wait. I only thought… thought it might help me to relax, as long as we're here." His voice is tiny by the time he finishes. There is a pause, more exchanged glances. A nod, he thinks, from the wizard.

"A fine idea, Mr. Frodo," from Sam. "We usually do serve it with meals, but only because it's easier and the timing works out well that way. But Olegar's told me it makes no difference if you drink it with food or no. We might all have some tea while we wait for all these raw things to become a proper meal."

Gandalf and the other hobbits drink linden leaf tea in an endeavor to make Frodo feel more comfortable. Frodo continues to avoid eye contact with his friends, especially Merry, who clearly feels betrayed, and Gandalf, with whom Frodo knows he will have to discuss all of this later. He is unsure as to how his request will be interpreted. Is it wrong of him to try to take the timing of the dose into his own hands? Is he meant to trust others to make these decisions for him? Or mightn't he be praised for recognizing his own limitations, knowing when to ask them for help? But he cannot bring himself to care much for the consequences, certain that he could not have withstood another hour without this. Even before he touches the cup to his lips, he feels a genuine smile in them, calming to the familiar smell of the steam. He ignores the bitterness in Merry's eyes and in the tea itself. The drink has come to seem sweet to him, at least at times like these, when awareness of the world as it is becomes too much of a burden to bear without breaking.

There is more silence, but it no longer feels awkward to him. Frodo lies with his head in Pippin's lap while Pippin runs a hand slowly through his hair. Sam stirs the pot, Gandalf smokes, and Merry paces around at the edge of Frodo's vision, hands in his pockets, looking off in the distance and occasionally kicking at the grass. As the two soldiers walk off together, Frodo realizes for the first time that the taller one, Anborn, is the same man who carried Frodo on his horse, kept him immobile all along that dreadful ride from Osgiliath to Minas Tirith, one of the two who dragged him into the Houses of Healing and subdued him when he fought. Probably one of the group that beat him back at the beginning, though Frodo's memories of that event are less clear. He smiles at the new insight and thinks to wave, but it is easier not to move.

Frodo is fighting sleep by the time Sam begins dishing out the food, but the stew is quite good and it revives him somewhat. Anborn and Beregond take their part and withdraw again, while Gandalf and the four hobbits sit together.

"The last time Frodo and Sam were here," says Gandalf, "armies were grouping for what I feared would be the great battle of our time." Frodo thinks that it is just like this hard new Gandalf to try to ruin a good, simple meal with such grand words. "Faramir and his men were fighting bravely against the Haradrim, who were then our enemy. And Frodo and Sam were doing their own part. But now we are all on the same side." Frodo finishes his food and sets his plate aside, stretching out on the blanket. As it happens, he now looks at Merry, who has also stopped eating, even though, Frodo sees, he has not finished. Merry stares at the wizard and listens with growing agitation as the speech drags on. The information barely registers with Frodo: that Faramir, who managed to create an alliance between the lands of Gondor and Harad, will soon be crowned King of Gondor. That Theoden of Rohan has promised Faramir his niece, the Lady Eowyn, and that their marriage will unite those two kingdoms as well. That even Mordor itself is no longer their enemy, now that Faramir commands Sauron's Ring.

Frodo feels a brief thrill at this last, but it passes quickly. He loses track of what has been said and only wishes Merry wouldn't look so unhappy. After a little while, Frodo closes his eyes, and sleeps, and does not dream.

* * *

Frodo is not the only one to have slept. Sam and Pippin are rubbing their eyes when Gandalf rouses him. It's harder to tell with the others. They begin walking again, but it soon becomes clear that Frodo cannot be left to walk on his own. In the end, Gandalf and the men take turns carrying him, and as things are now Frodo feels no shame in it. His mind drifts and he remembers the first weeks after Rivendell, when Aragorn, Boromir, and Legolas would often carry the hobbits, who took smaller steps and were unused to walking such distances. Those days had their own cares, and there was perhaps greater uncertainty then than there is now, but Frodo was more hopeful then. He believed in their quest and trusted his friends. It is pleasant and easy to pretend now that they are walking in the foothills of the Misty Mountains and not the Mountains of Shadow.

Meanwhile, part of his mind is also aware that they are taking the once secret path to Henneth Annûn. Anborn leads the way, the only one really familiar with this path. But since the enemy is no longer an enemy, there is no need to cover the visitors' eyes. Frodo relaxes in Anborn's arms, thinking of Aragorn, and it doesn't pain him to remember the other time he and Sam were led along this path, blindfolded and bound. _No one needs to bother binding my hands anymore,_ he thinks dreamily. _I'm a good patient. I ask nicely for my tea and I'm grateful for whatever they give me._

Inside the cave the light is dim, and at first the noise of the waterfall drowns out all other sounds. Frodo thinks this is beautiful.

However, he can tell that Merry is still troubled, and that Sam dislikes being back here and is worried for Frodo. Possibly the near thing before the meal made him realize how cruel all of the little journey is for Frodo, though he won't admit this in words. The other two are even making Pippin nervous. Frodo pities them but can't muster the energy to talk them out of their evil moods.

Merry says, loudly enough to carry some distance even over the roar of the water, "Gandalf, this is wrong of you. It's cruel to make Frodo and Sam spend the night in a place where they were held as prisoners."

_Sam and I are still prisoners,_ Frodo thinks with amusement. _No more cruel to have us sleep here than in my cell in the House of Healing from Madness or whatever they want to call it._ He smiles and, without much hope of accomplishing anything, tries laying a finger on Merry's lips to quiet him.

Merry pulls Frodo's hand away, saying, "No, Frodo, I won't pretend it's all right just to make everyone feel better. I don't care who hears me, I can't bear to see them hurt you like this."

_Dear, dear Merry, I thought you'd understood._ "It doesn't hurt." Frodo manages to get these three words out, but his tongue is too heavy to add, _You know Sam would never go along with anything that did._

Gandalf walks over to where the four hobbits are huddled together. "You needn't be afraid to speak your mind, Merry," he says, and Frodo registers the lie and the threat in his voice without feeling alarm. "The truth is that this area is no longer dangerous, and we might sleep outside as safely as in this cave. Frodo," he asks gravely, "would you prefer that?"

Frodo is confident of the correct answer this time and shakes his head as forcefully as he can. He tries to think of what to say and comes up with, "Like the waterfall." This will be taken as _I like the waterfall_, and that is close enough. What Frodo wishes he could make Merry understand is that the tea Sam gave him before dinner is as sublime and wonderful a thing as the waterfall. A cave might be a frightening place without it, and this particular cave could be terrifying, if you let yourself think too much about it. But if you can relax and live in the moment of it, there's really nothing to worry about. Within half an hour's time they've all become somewhat accustomed to the noise of the waterfall, and it's faded into the background. But all the time it is having an effect, working as a kind of shield. Battles could be being fought outside, but Frodo and his friends won't have to see or hear or worry about them, because they're safe inside, behind that thick curtain of water. And the drug works the same way. "Takes the edges off," Frodo says aloud. It wears off the sharp edges of reality in his mind.

But Merry does not understand as Frodo had hoped he would, and he moves away. Later in the evening Frodo is more awake and feels he might speak, but Merry is not in the mood to listen. Frodo knows not to insist. They sleep in the cave, behind the waterfall, and in the morning they start back toward the city.


	10. The Courtyard

Everyone else is under a spell, Merry can see. Somehow he's been the only one to resist it, and the clarity of thought he holds on to does him absolutely no good. Sitting here in the Courtyard of the Houses of Healing, surrounded by those who were once his closest friends, Merry feels completely alone.

Perhaps if he hadn't been separated from Pippin. If they'd faced Denethor together, Pippin wouldn't have feared the old man's madness as such a threat, wouldn't have felt such relief at Faramir's return to Minas Tirith, wouldn't have been so ready to see madness in Frodo. _If only you hadn't looked into the Palantir, Pippin, we might have stayed together. Whyever did you do it?_

But stayed together in order to accomplish what? It means nothing, for nothing would have been any better anyway, as long as Faramir had taken the Ring from Frodo. _How could you let him, Sam?_ Merry even asked this question out loud once, a short time after his own arrival in the city, before he'd understood how useless and how dangerous it was to try talking sense to any of them. _Why, Sam, if you loved him as I always thought you did? If you loved him as **I** did, you wouldn't have let them hurt him._

And Sam only answered, "You weren't there, Mr. Merry, you don't know. It would have been worse for him any other way."

Merry looks at Frodo now and wonders how it could possibly have been worse. Frodo is slumped in a too-large chair, staring into the near distance, obviously indifferent to the horrifying self congratulation going on around him here in the Courtyard. Obviously drugged, again.

No, no good asking Sam, or trusting anything to him. But what if Merry could go back, all the way back to the breaking of the Fellowship? He should never have let Frodo go off alone with Sam. Merry should never have left him. Merry could have gone with Frodo to Ithilien, and all the way into Mordor. And he would never, never have let Faramir or anyone else take the Ring from Frodo.

Faramir has called everyone together today in order to proclaim that Frodo is now healed. He thanks everyone present: Gandalf and the healers (and here is that sour old woman, looking satisfied with herself, and here is that stupid girl, eyes shining with happiness for Frodo) and the cooks and the gardeners. Merry and Pippin and Sam are praised as well for all the help and support they've given their friend in these difficult months, for all the help they'll continue to give him as they make their way back to their home, far away to the north. Faramir says it is sad to say goodbye, especially to his own friend Pippin, who has served him well as a Guard of the Citadel. But he says there is comfort in knowing that, far away as the Shire is from Minas Tirith, it is still a part of the same kingdom. And when the four hobbits return to their home they may tell the good folk there that the King has returned to his throne, and they no longer need fear the lawlessness and confusion of an embattled land.

Merry understands this pronouncement for the threat that it is: you may go far away, but you will not escape me. You will not escape my control. Frodo will never be free, nor will any of you.

Merry is almost certain that this is true, that they are destined to serve Faramir until their deaths. He tries to figure out about how things could have been different.

It isn't that no resistance is possible. Pippin, after all, has close access to Faramir, often brings him his food. Sam has access to and knowledge of all the herbs of the gardens of the Houses of Healing, including those that can kill, and those that send a hobbit or a man into a deep, dreamless sleep. How difficult would it really be to get the Ring away from him?

And after that, mightn't it even be easier than before for the hobbits to get the Ring into Mordor and to Mount Doom, now that Faramir has apparently promised loyalty to Sauron, and the borders between their lands are no longer patrolled by Southrons, Easterlings, and Orcs?

No, the main thing would be to get it away from him and to escape from the city themselves. Merry often imagines they might enlist the help of Queen Éowyn, who befriended him at Edoras and who seemed, when he confided in her at that time, to want Frodo's quest to be successful.

But a lot of things seemed different then. Merry looks at the queen now and sees the same blankness in her eyes that he's come to know in Frodo's, and he wonders, do they feed her the same herbs to make her sleep at night and pacify her during the day? Was she beaten before she was brought to Minas Tirith? Does Faramir beat her still? Does he tie her to the bed? Merry can't see any marks, but she wears a long gown that covers her neck, her wrists, and her ankles, and which might well hide bruises. Then again, Merry thinks, there's probably no longer any need for that. Like Frodo, she has lost the look of defiance that once made her stand out. The gown she wears today is finer than anything made in her own country, but she no longer looks like a daughter of kings, a warrior, or a leader. She is a thing, a trophy, and instrument. An _alliance_.

Because Faramir's talk is always about alliances now, and Gandalf's too. Of course, everyone else echoes the king's words, as it seems the prudent thing to do; and eventually that has come to mean echoing the king's thoughts as well. It means agreeing with everything Faramir says and does, whether they intend to or not. This alliance is Faramir's great accomplishment (and praise him with great praise); not victory over the enemy, but a certain _understanding_.

And Sam seems to think and to work in the same way, establishing his own alliances with Faramir, Olegar, Ioreth, and the others. It isn't that he ever turned against Frodo in his heart, Merry thinks, but Sam believes that by cooperating he can avoid a bloodbath, get everyone out alive. No use telling him that he's really already been conquered.

Merry still thinks about how they might turn things around. Until recently he kept these thoughts to himself as secret plots, plans he might put into action only when the moment was right. Since the trip to Ithilien he's kept them to himself as empty fantasies.

Never mind that Frodo is obviously far too weak physically to attempt the journey east; that isn't the real problem. Merry no longer keeps any real hope because he knows he can accomplish nothing alone. And since Ithilien Merry understands that he _is_ alone. Sam will not find the drug for them. Pippin will not feed it to the king. Éowyn will not lift the chain from around her lord's neck as he sleeps. More importantly, there is Frodo.

_I can't think too much about what happened,_ Frodo had said, _or what could have happened._

Faramir's strength is not in arms or armies. It isn't in the guards who keep him safe or in the herbs that keep Frodo passive. It is another kind of power altogether that has gotten inside everyone's head, that has convinced everyone, _even you, Frodo_, to side with him. So that now Frodo resists having to take on the burden of normal consciousness. And let no one speak of him attempting to carry anything heavier. He would certainly be crushed. Or perhaps torn apart.

Merry can accomplish nothing if no one will help him. Merry has no alliances here. _Whatever became_, he thinks, _of our Fellowship?_

This word, he has noticed, is no longer used, for it is too much associated with a plan that has been abandoned. Like certain names -- Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, Radagast, Gollum, Saruman, and even Sauron -- it has not actually been forbidden, but everyone knows better than to speak it out loud, if there is any way of avoiding it.

Faramir is still speaking. He still sounds smug and Merry still feels the menace behind his words. He says he is proud to be putting an end to wars in these lands, so that in the future the healers of these Houses will no longer have to tend to soldiers wounded in body or in spirit.

Merry has seen wounded soldiers continue to arrive in recent months, and he has seen prisoners of war. He knows there have been revolts in outlying provinces. He's heard whispered rumors of a traveling band of horse warriors. Others tell tales of an elf, a man and a dwarf having sailed to Harad in the far south, to conspire with the leaders of that proud people There are also rumors of their return to Gondor. There are some who still hope. But Merry is no longer one of them.

So Merry stands, walks to Faramir as the others have done, kneels and pledges his allegiance as they have done. Tomorrow they will set out, and Gandalf is meant to accompany them as far as Edoras before returning to the city. The hobbits have proven their loyalty already and will be left to journey home alone.

And if, as they are told, their home still exists, if the villages have not been burned and the hobbits have not been enslaved, then they will settle down, in Buckland or Hobbiton or anywhere peaceful. Sam will keep deciding what Frodo gets to eat and drink, and Merry and Pippin will tell the relatives that Frodo is changed but that they did the best they could; and Faramir will keep ruling over them even from hundreds of miles away. And when the armies do come, for they must, the Shirelings will submit to them peacefully. Merry is a fool to have resisted for so long.


	11. Another Journey

Frodo stares up at the night sky, saddened but not really surprised at its emptiness. He has looked forward to this night and often dreamt of it, and he always imagined the sky would be much more beautiful than this. He hasn't been awake during the night for months, and even if he had, he wouldn't have seen more than patches of sky through the window grating of his cell. He has been lying awake for hours, trying hard not to think of the way he used to stay up with the Ring, the hours he spent admiring and caressing it. He tries to focus instead on the present, and on the task ahead of him. But he needs to make these hours pass without movement or sound, and his mind wanders.

Frodo isn't given a turn at watch, of course. The journey is difficult enough for him, even though he often rides a pony while the others walk. Most evenings he's been exhausted by the time they stop to make camp. He takes the sleeping draught from Sam just after they eat. He stretches out, thanks Pippin for staying up, and sleeps until they wake him in the morning.

They all fall into patterns of routine and watchfulness so easily now that the order was established quickly, as soon as they separated from the others at Edoras. Sam himself drinks half a cup of the same drink each evening, the better to ignore that hard, uneven ground on which he, Frodo; and Merry lie down together; Pippin stays up a few hours later. When his own shift is over, Pippin downs the rest of Sam's cup and then sleeps soundly until morning, doing his best to stay in bed as late as possible. Merry, who won't touch the drink, takes the loneliest hours of the night for his own watching and worrying. And Sam waits for the dawn, which is always grey, and starts preparing breakfast for four and heating water for their baths before waking the gentlehobbits. (Frodo understands now that Sam will never lose his deference, even after having wrestled Frodo to the ground and forced medicines down his throat.)

Everyone trusts everyone else to follow the pattern. And here is Frodo's reward for six months of compliance at Minas Tirith and seven nights of it on the road: a few hours ago, as they got ready to lie down for another night, no one watched to make sure Frodo drank from his own cup.

It was already dark then. Merry had been in a mood and he'd walked off by himself just after supper. Pippin had followed him, naturally, and Sam had been left to tidy things up on his own. Frodo had spilled the cup's contents on the grass. It was not a large quantity and Sam was not suspicious. It was easy.

Frodo murmured, "I do hope Pippin can bring Merry round to seeing things our way. I hate to see him worry so." He settled into his sleeping place without really listening to Sam's similarly optimistic and insincere reply. It wasn't necessary to fake sleepiness, as Frodo was truly very tired.

There is no danger, on the other hand, of him falling asleep now. His nerves are completely on edge, and the tension increases as time passes, as his last dose of tea drifts farther back in memory, and as more and more of his impossible plan appears to be working. He wonders how anyone does manage to sleep, when everything in the world is so very frightening and wrong.

Besides all that, the ground is hard and uncomfortable beneath him. He has to make a conscious effort not to shift his position. _The good Frodo_, he reminds himself, _the one who drank his medicine, the one Sam believes in, the good Frodo is sleeping now. Better you keep still as well._

He remembers all those times in the first weeks at the House when it seemed that was all he heard. _Calm down, Frodo, be still. No one is going to hurt you._ They haven't needed to talk to him that way in quite a while. He still cries sometimes, but it is a quiet, hopeless kind of cry, usually when he is alone. Afterwards he's never sure whether the others can tell, from the redness of his eyes or through some form of surveillance he hasn't been able to perceive. Gandalf might give him a questioning look, Pippin give him an extra kiss, Merry an extra squeeze around the shoulders, but no one says anything. And Frodo has learned how to conjure a smile whenever he needs to offer reassurance.

Frodo was pleased to find out they did not sit up discussing him tonight, as he had feared they might. Shortly after returning to camp with Pippin, Merry had settled in at Frodo's side. Sam was at the other side already, and they both went to sleep without words. Pippin did not, as Frodo had feared, keep constant watch over the three of them, but went up the short distance to the crown of this hill, and Frodo supposed he scanned the distance and the edge of the trees, so they'd not be surprised by enemies in the night

Several hours have passed, and Merry is sleeping, but he tosses and turns more than Frodo does. Sam lies peacefully. Frodo waits.

He continues to lie quiet for a time after Pippin returns and rouses Merry. He listens for Pippin's breath beside him to reach the same slow, even rhythm as Sam's.

It's a bit of a trick rising from in between them, and Frodo wonders whether they sleep in this arrangement, always with him in the middle, in order to increase their vigilance, to prevent just such an action as tonight's, or whether they stay close to him out of simple affection. He manages to step away and then to kneel beside Sam and get what he needs from him, for Sam and Pippin sleep almost as soundly with their half dose as Frodo normally does with the full one.

The safest thing for Frodo would be to do it now. But he worries about what might happen afterwards if Merry doesn't know how to interpret the action. Some things need to be explained to him, and Frodo has not yet had the chance. No soldiers or chaperons were sent along with them this far, but Frodo doesn't want to reveal his secrets within hearing of Sam and Pippin, and he's never out of it on this journey.

So he accepts the risk. Quietly as a hobbit knows how, he creeps up the hill toward his cousin. Merry is quite close and able to recognize him by the time Frodo passes around into his range of sight, so he is startled for a moment and reaches for his sword, but controls his voice in time and does not sound the alarm. Frodo smiles at him and sits down by his side. Merry stares but says nothing.

"You're not angry, are you?" Frodo begins softly.

He's not surprised to see Merry shake his head. "You know I'm always wishing you wouldn't drink it." There is a slight pause. "Why tonight?" Merry inquires.

Frodo shrugs. "Sam looked away. I took the opportunity."

"The others didn't notice? They didn't stir when you got up?"

"No."

Merry grins. "Was my bit of theatrics earlier this evening helpful then?"

"The storming off so Pip had to run after you? A lovely distraction, Merry, I wasn't sure whether you'd done it on purpose."

"Everything I do has a purpose."

"Of course, dear, but I thought your purpose might only be to make Sam and Pip feel guilty."

Merry's smile fades a little and he shakes his head. "I thought you looked like you wanted a distraction," he says.

"Always so conspiratorial, cousin. I thank you."

Merry appears to try out several statements in his mind before deciding to repeat his question, "So why tonight?"

The truth, then. Frodo takes a deep breath. "Because I wanted to talk to you." There, that wasn't so hard.

Merry nods. "I miss talking to you, Frodo, the real you."

Frodo decides to let this pass. "I know, Merry. But I think you realize this conversation won't be an easy one."

"Nothing is easy anymore," Merry mutters, then looks apologetic. "I understand. But I'll listen to anything you have to tell me, Frodo. What is it?"

Frodo has rehearsed this conversation often, whenever his thoughts are clear enough. But it is still difficult to begin. "It isn't working," he tries, hearing his own words sounding petulant and childish.

He senses a new tension in Merry, knows this is only the beginning.

"What isn't working?" Merry asks apprehensively.

"I thought we could get away, but we haven't." That sounds a little better.

Merry, being Merry, thinks he has an answer to this. "But we have gotten away, Frodo, what are you saying? We've been sleeping under the stars for a week. No one tells us what to do and no one's following us. It'll be your birthday in a few more weeks, and we'll come to Rivendell -- "

"Ah, yes, and see Elrond and all the Elves in Faramir's thrall. Won't that be lovely. Bilbo too, I shouldn't be surprised."

"You don't know that."

Frodo is quite sure, but that isn't the point. "Anyway," says Merry, "if it's not what we'd hoped for we can leave, and soon enough we'll be -- "

"Back in the Shire. Yes."

"It's not a lie, Frodo. Things _will_ get better for you there, I'm sure of it."

Frodo shakes his head. "I'll never get better, I understand that now. I shouldn't have hoped for it… But that's only part of it, Merry. You're wrong when you say no one is following us. I mean to say, I don't think there are spies hiding in the bushes -- I'm not that kind of mad."

"You know I don't think that," Merry cuts in, sounding hurt.

"I'm sorry," Frodo says. "I shouldn't have said that. I… I only have one chance to explain this to you. I shouldn't waste time --"

A noise startles them both. Frodo is scared to silence and Merry reaches again for his sword before they both see that it is only a small bird, perhaps a sparrow, startled by their own speech and flying away to the safety of thicker trees.

"Spies in the bushes, at that," Merry chuckles.

Frodo smiles and rolls his eyes. They catch as he looks up; he is again disconcerted by the empty sky, and thinks he knows what to say to Merry: "We haven't been sleeping under the stars."

"What?"

"Surely you've noticed the shadow which no one talks about."

"Yes," says Merry.

"Surely it makes you uneasy."

"It does. But Frodo, we're just at the edge of it. There's light by the horizon, I see it toward the end of every day. That's why I know everything will become clearer as we keep heading toward home."

"No." It seems almost a shame to keep crushing Merry's strained optimism, but Frodo is finished with pleasant lies. "I had hoped the same thing. But don't you see? We're _always_ at the edge of it because it follows us. It follows _me_."

"No, Frodo," Merry says hollowly, and Frodo fears he's already stopped listening.

"This is not a delusion. I know this is true."

"Oh, hang it all, this is _me_ you're talking to, Frodo! I have _never_ believed there was anything wrong with you, and I don't believe it now."

"Then believe _me_. No, Merry, just listen to me for a moment," says Frodo, because Merry is moving restlessly, though Frodo can't think where he means to go. "Sam and I noticed it when the two of us were traveling alone, when we were close to Mordor. We were at the edge of it then too, but we knew we had to move toward it. All of Mordor is dark like that, much darker even than Minas Tirith has become. Not just the darkness of the sky but this dryness, the prickles on your skin, the darkness in your mind. You know what I speak of. It isn't only me." Merry acknowledges this with a nod, and Frodo continues. "We could see the deeper shadow beyond the mountains, but we walked toward it because we had a task to complete. Now," Frodo's voice loses some of its steadiness, "we weren't allowed to do this. I can't understand now how Gandalf or the rest of us ever thought it could work. But in any case we failed, and we weren't allowed to keep walking into the darkness. But here's what I believe: by the time Faramir captured us, Sauron already had me."

"Frodo, you're not making sense."

"No, wait, only because you're not listening," Frodo says in frustration. "Just think about it. They're all one."

"What…?"

Frodo thinks for a moment of how to make Merry comprehend the danger, of what things have most upset Merry, apart from the transformation in Frodo himself. "I didn't know the Lady Éowyn before she was brought to Minas Tirith," he begins slowly, "but Gandalf has told me something of her story. And I heard you telling Pippin something more of how she used to be. And you cried, and you said it wasn't right what they'd done."

"Yes," Merry says, sounding surprised.

"I saw the way you looked at her in the ceremony in the Courtyard, Merry. I think I can make you can understand."

"I didn't think you knew what was going on at the ceremony. Or when I tried talking to Pip afterwards."

"I know you like it when I act like my old self," Frodo says gently. "It makes you feel more comfortable, yes?"

Merry nods dumbly.

"But sometimes it's easier for me not to be aware of it all. It hurts so much. And it hurt that day. I heard everything Faramir said and I saw how the others reacted, and how you did, dear, and there was no reasonable way for me to react to all that, so it was easier not to react to anything at all. I choose to do that sometimes; it's something that Gandalf taught me how to do and I'm grateful to him for it. And other times they _make_ me do it with the drugs, of course. But you can't let it upset you so."

"It's only that I want you to be happy again, like you were before."

"But that can't happen now, Merry, that's what I'm trying to explain. It's too late for me, as it is for Éowyn, and you can't be angry at her or at me for going away, when you don't know, when you can't possibly comprehend how hard it is for us to be here, and how helpless." Frodo stops, realizing his words are getting away from him, along with his emotions. He did not mean to spend so much time dwelling on his own suffering. And he's upset Merry again, rather than convincing him of anything.

"Faramir is a wicked, wicked man," Merry says with hushed anger. "I can't understand how she ever submitted to him."

"No, Merry," says Frodo, "Faramir is no more wicked than Éowyn or I. And she is not weak and neither was I, but she… She was _made_ to marry him, you know this. Faramir put a ring around her finger and now she belongs to him. She was strong and she was good, but now she belongs to him."

"How can you say he's not wicked, Frodo, after all he's done to both of you?"

"But it's the same thing, Merry, I really believe that. At the beginning of it all Faramir was strong and good too, but the Ring, the One Ring took hold of him, and now he serves Sauron, whether he knows it or not. And Gandalf" -- yes, he knows he must speak of Gandalf, but his voice breaks on the name -- "Gandalf was the strongest and the best and the wisest of all of us once. But he wears another of the rings, and that means he belongs to Faramir, and he belongs to Sauron, because they're all one." And now Frodo does see the beginning of understanding in Merry's eyes. _Because we are all one._ Frodo has said it already and he sees plainly that Merry is hearing the words again in his head.

"But not you, Frodo."

"Yes, and also me," Frodo responds immediately. "I carried it long enough that it became part of me, and that's what the real madness is, what they never had any hope of curing me of. I was at the edge of it when we met Faramir, I told you, but I was far enough gone that it was too late to turn back. I could never be free from that power unless the Ring was destroyed."

"You mean to say," Merry says slowly, "that it became part of you, and you became part of it."

Frodo nods. "I tried to be good," he says, working to keep his voice steady, "and I tried so hard to be strong, Merry, but I lost. They took the Ring away, and for all these months I've been without it, I still carry it with me. I know you know this."

Merry does know it, he does understand now, but still he resists. "It will fade. The distance… and time, Frodo, as you move away from it all I know it will become easier for you."

Frodo recognizes this as nervous chatter and doesn't bother to respond. "I should have known, of course," Frodo says, not noticing whether Merry in turn is paying attention or not. "I should never have hoped I could go home again. Do you know, when Gandalf -- the old Gandalf, the one who tried to help us -- when he first came and told me the whole story of the Ring, who'd made it and what it meant, I understood then that I should have to leave everything else and take the Ring away, and that I should be exiled forever. I don't know what made me forget that. I suppose I was so desperate to imagine any life other than what they'd made for me in that House, I was willing to believe in an ending as absurd as 'He lived happily ever after till the end of his days.'"

"It was wrong of him," says Merry, "he was wrong even back then. I know he was Bilbo's friend and you trusted him, but he should never have asked you to take it. It was wrong for any of us hobbits to get mixed up in any of this."

Frodo does consider this, but shakes his head slowly. "No, I'm sure he meant well then, that somehow he believed I was capable of… but it doesn't matter anymore. Merry, I can't go back to Minas Tirith. I won't."

"They hurt you, Frodo. I never should have let them do the things they did --"

"No, Merry, you're not listening again. Pay attention, now, we haven't got so much time. I won't go back there, but I can't take this power back to the Shire with me either. _You_ have to go."

"I don't understand."

"It's hopeless trying to fight them in Gondor." This part is easier to say. "It's worse than trying to fight the dark power in Mordor. In Gondor every friend's become an enemy, and you don't know what you're for or who you're against. There's no way of resisting it. No, look," he says before Merry can interrupt, "_you_ have to back to the Shire. And not only there, of course, you'll have to go to Bree as well, and places I've never seen, and tell the hobbits there what's happened. The hobbits and the dwarves and the elves and the men. I know it sounds quite absurd when I say it like this, but you're capable of much more than you know, cousin."

But Merry is excited now. "That's just what I've wanted, Frodo. I haven't been able to talk to you."

"Good then, you understand," says Frodo, knowing he still doesn't, not really. "I do think some kind of resistance will be possible, though I don't know how it'll be. And you can win Pippin and Sam back. I know it's difficult to understand them right now, when they've acted the way they have for the past few months, but it was only the circumstances that made them go along with Faramir and Gandalf. I think once they stop worrying about my well-being you'll be able to make things clear to them.

"They'll never stop caring for you, Frodo."

"They will once I'm out of the way."

There it is. Frodo braces himself for the reaction. He is not at all expecting, after a few seconds of silence, to have Merry pounce on top of him, grab his hands by the wrists and flatten him on his back. Still, he is able to control his movements and his voice. He knows Merry has the physical advantage and he doesn't want to wake the others. "Let go of me," Frodo says, low, quiet, and cold.

"Have you taken it yet?"

"Yes." He hasn't. "Just before I came up here."

"You're lying," says Merry. "Something strong enough to kill you would have had some effect by now."

"I don't want to fight you, Merry, not now. I've had to fight and deceive everyone else I love. I tell you I drank it already." He pushes his hands in Merry's grasp without really trying to break free of them. "Come, you know I'm tired and you know I'm weak. Let me go, I won't try anything."

"You've never been weak. Just because you can't fight me doesn't mean you won't win."

"This is not your decision to make." Frodo knows that by saying this he is half admitting that he hasn't yet taken the poison. He _does_ need Merry's help. He _does_ need Merry to make this decision. This is the trust Frodo has put in his cousin.

"This isn't you," Merry says, and Frodo takes some satisfaction from the fact that he too is keeping his voice low, has not yet decided to call for Sam. Frodo just needs time to convince him. "You wouldn't be thinking this way if you could see a bit beyond this hell we're stuck in right now."

"Not _we_, Merry, I told you, I'm alone in this."

"Then I'm sorry, Frodo, I'm sorry I said it that way and I'm sorry you're suffering so and that I can't understand it. But listen, if you could understand _me_, I'm telling you, it _will_ get better. You need to believe me."

"Damn it, Merry," Frodo whispers furiously, "do you think I haven't heard this before?" Merry's grip loosens at these words, but only a little. Frodo tries to shift underneath him to get more room to breathe. "Six months, Merry, six long months of everyone who loves me telling me what I want doesn't matter because I'm not myself. Six months of other people making decisions for me. Every single detail of my life was taken out of my hands. You never did join them in that. You never tried to take away my freedom. Don't do it now."

"I'm sorry for what they did to you," Merry says, "but you're not going to win this by manipulating me."

"You're right," Frodo says, and he means it, for all that he is also still angry. "It's not about guilt and it's not about what happened to me, really. It's not about me at all, I'm trying… But this is ridiculous, Merry, I can't talk to you while you're lying on top of me. I shouldn't have lied before. You're right, I haven't drunk it yet. I waited because I trusted you enough to come talk to you first. Now I need you to trust me. You can keep holding my hands if you need to, but please let me sit up and let me breathe a little. I promise you I won't do it until you let me go."

There is a pause, but not a very long one. Merry slowly shifts his legs off Frodo's and onto the ground on one side, then puts his weight on his knees, and Frodo can breathe again, though he still can't move. "Where is it?" Merry asks.

The clothes they had made for Frodo have no pockets. "The hem of the left trouser leg," he says quietly. "I pulled out some of the stitches." The phial was small enough to fit there without looking terribly obvious, although it probably would be noticed in daylight.

Merry very carefully allows Frodo to sit up, never letting go of his hands. He wraps his right arm around Frodo and takes both his wrists in that hand, then reaches down with his left to pull out the tiny bottle with the dark green tincture. He stares at it for a few moments before hiding it in his own pocket. He holds Frodo close. "One of Sam's ingredients?" he asks.

Frodo nods. "He puts a drop of it in the sleeping draught every night. I heard him talking with the other gardener when they thought I wasn't there. I mean, when they thought I was too far gone to be listening. He said half of what's in that phial would be enough to kill a man."

Frodo can feel Merry start to tremble, though he tries to hide it in another movement, squeezing Frodo, trying to turn his fear into warmth and affection. "I won't let you go," Merry says.

Frodo smiles, knowing that Merry cannot actually see his face. "That's what Sam used to say."

"Sam failed you."

"He didn't, Merry, he never did. How long are you going to go on blaming everyone else? I failed Sam. _I_ did. _I_ let the Ring take over me, and once that happened there was nothing Sam or anyone else could have done to make things come out right. Not and have me live."

Merry has no answer. He holds on tight.

"Let go of my hands, Merry, let me hug you."

"No."

"Do you think I mean to wrestle you for it?"

"No. You'll just keep asking for little things until before I know it I'm handing you the poison."

"And your plan is what? To hold me here in place until Sam wakes up and finds us?"

"I'll wake him. He'll know what to do."

"You won't. You hate him too much."

Merry tenses and takes a deep breath upon hearing this truth. Before he can answer there is another sound that makes them both go perfectly still. Hoof beats, and not far off. Spies in the bushes, at that. Frodo doesn't know who is coming for them, but he knows there is no more time for debate or stalling.

Frodo closes his eyes, then twists his head so he can speak very softly in Merry's ear. "Now, cousin." Merry's eases his grip.


	12. An Ending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter and the next are two alternate endings for the fic.

Aragorn comes wide awake when Legolas touches his shoulder saying, "We should go to them, now."

"Do the birds speak to you, to make you decide such things?" Gimli complains at Aragorn's side. He's clearly been awoken first but hasn't yet risen. A sparrow chirps on the ground a few feet away.

"I am no wizard," Legolas says. "I do not understand the bird's song as one understands words. I only sense that something has gone wrong."

"_Now_ he senses this!" Gimli mutters.

"Something has grown worse, then, and it has become urgent."

"No need to explain," says Aragorn, already up and starting to gather their things. "Gimli, have you not learned to trust Legolas's instincts by now?"

"Five days we've been following them," says Gimli, who by now has also begun to move, "and all along I've said we should go to them."

Longer than that, Aragorn thinks. Gimli began advocating an attack on Minas Tirith when the news first came to them that Faramir had Frodo and the Ring. Even when Théoden refused to send his army, Gimli was ready to storm the place on his own. He has needed to be talked down nearly every day since.

"Five days we could easily have gone to them," he says now. "No castle walls and no armed guards. But the Elf decides to move just as I've found a comfortable spot on the ground and a dream that doesn't involve battles or cursed rings."

He's still complaining, but he's on his horse already, as is Aragorn. Legolas joins Gimli, and the three of them take off.

Aragorn's heart has been with Gimli these past five days as well as these past six months. No one knows the full story, but Aragorn is certain that Frodo is suffering and suspects the other hobbits are as well. He wants to go to them, do whatever he can for them. The last thing he wants is to wait in the shadows.

Still, his reason has sided with Legolas and with caution. "The power of the Rings is altogether corrupted," Legolas argued when first they found the hobbits' trail, here in the foothills of the White Mountains. "The Rings are turned to the will of Faramir, which is turned to the will of Sauron. We know that we may no longer trust Mithrandir or Elrond or Galadriel. Frodo and his friends were dear to us when we knew them, but we cannot be sure that the ones we follow are even the same hobbits, after so many months in Faramir's custody."

"All the more reason to go to them _now_," said Gimli, "before any more damage can be done."

"Legolas is right," said Aragorn. "Though it pains my heart to say it, we must wait. We should observe them and try to find out their loyalties before we go to meet them. In any case, we must make sure they are not being followed or spied upon by any other."

"I don't abide being a spy," said Gimli. "It's all right for a Mirkwood Elf to be slinking about in the shadows, but you and I are Man and Dwarf, and we are warriors."

Such arguments were repeated each evening, and Gimli was often reminded that Legolas, too, was a warrior, at which information he always scoffed. But the truth was that he _had_ learned to trust Legolas's instincts, if not to share his patience.

Aragorn hasn't an immortal's patience either, and as they ride the short distance to the hobbits' camp he too wonders what can be happening to make his friend choose to move just now. His trepidation is mixed with relief that at least they are moving, at last they are taking some action. He hopes they haven't waited too long.

When they come up over the crest of the hill they see two hobbits sitting on the ground. In the dark and from a distance Aragorn can't make out who they are and what they are doing; then Legolas says, "Merry is holding Frodo fast."

Aragorn rushes to them and halts, jumps off his horse and pulls the hobbits apart. Merry twists in Aragorn's arms and cries out, "Stop him! Don't let him drink the poison, Strider, he'll kill himself. Grab his hands."

Gimli has taken hold of Frodo, but there is no need to restrain him. Frodo is limp and speaks softly. "You came," he says, softly, almost as if speaking to himself, though he clearly recognizes them. "I'd given up hope that you'd come. And I… I don't think the hope was ever much good anyway. I'm sorry to have caused you such trouble. I'm sorry that I…"

"Don't listen to him." Merry is weeping, Aragorn can tell from his desperate voice, words with very little meaning to them, aimed at no one. "Don't listen, he's lying."

"You can let him go." Frodo nods to Aragorn and Merry and his voice sounds tired, flat. "He's not trying to hurt me -- and I'm not trying to hurt myself either. Please, Gimli, let me go."

When released, Merry stays in place on the ground, shaking. Aragorn takes a step closer to Frodo. Gimli now looks to be supporting him, holding him up rather than holding him still. At Aragorn's touch on his shoulder Frodo squeezes his eyes shut, as if in pain

* * *

"I didn't give it to him, Aragorn. I know that's how they tell it, but it wasn't my choice, I swear to you."

"We knew you would not give it to him willingly, Frodo. You are not to blame." Slowly, as gently as he may, Aragorn draws the hobbit to him. Frodo lets himself be moved, slumps forward onto his knees with a quiet sob. "Is this all right?" Frodo does not answer but wraps his arms around Aragorn's torso, as if he might hug back, if he had more strength. Aragorn feels Gimli's strong hands still at Frodo's back, though he has drawn back, not wanting to smother him. At Aragorn's touch Gimli moves away. "There was no way we could come for you in Minas Tirith," Aragorn says.

"Believe us, Frodo, we wanted to do it," Gimli says.

Frodo nods. "I know." He pulls away very lightly, and Aragorn releases him, still keeping a hand on his shoulder to steady him. "I stopped hoping for it a long time ago. But of course it's for the best that you didn't come. You would have been killed, I know that. It's a city made of stone, isn't it? They've got the armies and they've got the Ring. And we can't get it back."

"We still can, Frodo."

"No." He shakes his head, rising unsteadily to his feet. "No, it's too late."

Merry gets up and goes to his cousin, puts his arms around him and whispers something Aragorn cannot hear. Gimli looks to him and Aragorn signals him to wait. "The hobbits must decide for themselves," he says softly.

"No rescue," Frodo says aloud. "You can't save me."

Then Legolas reaches the top of the hill with Sam, who looks confused and is wiping sleep from his eyes, and Pippin, who is awake, wary, and calm.

"It's not a rescue," Pippin says. "It's a choice they're giving us."

"I've made my choice already," says Frodo.

Aragorn is barely able to make out Merry's next words, "That wasn't a choice."

"Oh, come off it, Merry. It _would_ have been if you'd let me -- "

"A choice between slavery and death is no choice at all," says Merry, louder now, as if speaking for the company. "This is what we've been waiting for, don't you see?"

Then Sam sees the phial of green liquid in Merry's hand. "Mr Frodo?" he says. "Did you -- ?"

"It's all right, Sam. Merry stopped me." Frodo seems to shrink in Merry's arms. He glares at Merry and does not look at Sam.

"But you -- "

"Don't worry, Sam." Pippin puts an arm around Sam's shoulders as he speaks, and Aragorn marvels at the hobbits' ability -- nay, their _need_ to give each other comfort even in the most desperate situation, despite all the tension he can sense between them now. "It's a good thing he talked to Merry and not to me." Frodo jerks his head up to look at Pippin, who nods lightly, even with a slight, sad smile. "I'd have let you go through with it, you know."

"Mr. Pippin!" says Sam, appalled, while Frodo and Merry stare at their cousin in amazement and some admiration.

"Well, if you'd heard his reasons!" Pippin says.

"I thought if you heard them you'd send word to Minas Tirith at once, any way you could," says Frodo. "Pippin, have you been pretending the whole time?"

"No," he admits, a little less bold than a moment before. "Faramir was... When first he came, everything he said seemed to make sense, or nearly everything."

"But you let them..." Frodo begins to tremble and stops speaking, and Pippin hangs his head. Aragorn and his friends have been living on the run for six months, and suddenly he feels that they've had it easy, though he has only vague notions of what has happened to the hobbits. "Fine then," Frodo says. "So you had to play along, get us back to the Shire and so on. I know enough about that by now. Perhaps Sam was doing the same thing. But listen, Pippin, if you heard what I said to Merry, you know it's still true. You, all of you, you need to keep fighting, but I can't go on with it anymore."

"No," says Merry. "The things you said, Frodo, even if, then... But everything's changed now, don't you see? Our friends are with us."

"Ah, so four against the world was hopeless but seven against the world will be child's play, is that it?" Frodo says with surprising energy and bitterness.

"They're not -- " Pippin begins, and Sam raises his voice as he says Frodo's name.

"Friends," says Aragorn, raising his hands to stop the arguing. "We make a clamor in a wild night. Frodo, I did not hear what you told your cousin, but I may tell you a little of what we know. We are not seven against the world, for we do have allies in this country and in every part of the empire. Still, we are a band of rebels in the night, and we would do well to be quiet and calm. Now, Pippin spoke the truth: Legolas, Gimli and I are not in a position to rescue anyone, for we are outlaws ourselves, and so you would become if you were to join us. We cannot offer you safety or security; that is what Faramir and Gandalf have done."

Frodo shudders faintly at the names. Merry holds him and Pippin and Sam move towards him.

"They have promised you safe passage to your home and protection once you reach it," Aragorn continues, "and as far as we can tell, they intend to honor this promise. Gandalf or Faramir or his soldiers may go to the Shire, but Saruman and his men and his orcs will be kept away. The Shire hobbits will not be enslaved or taken from their homes."

"Everything will be regulated," Frodo says.

"Yes, everything will be controlled, just as it is in Minas Tirith. Or, if you come with us, everything will be uncertain. We will live in the wild and no place will be safe. We will do battle and some of us may be injured or killed."

It is dark and until this moment Aragorn wasn't sure whether the hobbits had noticed the scar by his right eye, but Merry and Sam both dart nervous glances at it, probably without realizing they are doing it.

"Is that the plan then?" says Frodo. "Is it to be a battle at the last?"

"It may be that," Aragorn answers. "I cannot see the end of this fight, but perhaps my fate is to do as my ancestor Isildur did, to win the Ring back with a sword."

"Even if it comes to a great battle," Frodo says, "and you cut the Ring off Faramir's hand, we'll just be back where we started, and without the help of Gandalf or the Elves. And I can be no use to you in any part of it, Aragorn. I cannot fight with a sword, and if the Ring were to come to me again I should not be able to give it up. I know this."

"You may still do either, or it may be another's task. It may be beyond our own lifetimes to see it, but the Ring must be destroyed, and it shall be."

"I have some ideas," Merry offers brightly.

And Frodo closes his eyes, shakes his head, and smiles, as if annoyed but comforted by the familiarity of it. "You mean for us to go back to the City as spies, don't you?"

"We could say the Shire wasn't the place for us after all."

"If you choose to come with us," says Aragorn, "there will be time later to discuss strategies. If you choose to go on to the Shire without us, then the three of us should slip away now and not risk being discovered with you, which could put you in great danger. What say you, hobbits?"

Everyone looks to Frodo, but he does not speak.

"Sam?" says Aragorn.

"I shall go with Frodo," says Sam, "wherever he decides to go."

Frodo lowers his head.

"I shall go with the rebels," says Pippin, stepping away from Sam and standing tall, "with or without Frodo's company. For he wishes me to go with them."

Merry does not make a declaration but speaks softly, pleadingly, and everyone else goes silent.. "Frodo, when you went across the river with Sam at Parth Galen, that was where it all went wrong."

"It all went wrong long before that," Frodo says.

"Don't make us split up again. Here we are, seven of our Fellowship together. Don't leave me again, Frodo. Come with us, I beg you. I've as much hope now as ever I've had since before the Orcs took Pippin and me."

"They have the Ring, Merry."

"But we have you," says Merry.

"And a lot of good I am to anybody."

"No, Frodo, you don't understand," says Pippin. "Merry's right. I believed they had you, for a time. Or I believed the Ring had you, but it doesn't. I can see that now. When I listen to your voice now -- "

"It still has me, Pippin."

"Believe your kinsmen," Gimli says. "We were told tales of a hobbit driven out of his mind with desire for the Ring. That is not what I see before me."

"I am not as I appear," Frodo speaks slowly, as if holding back anger. "You can't -- all of you -- you can't turn this around. You can't make this come out right."

"Perhaps it is we who are mad then," says Legolas. "Perhaps we are doomed. But we are not yet ready to give up the fight."

"And we would have you with us," Gimli adds, "all of you."

"Whatever road you take from here will be a difficult one," says Aragorn. "What is your choice, Frodo"

"It seems you all refuse to let me give up the journey altogether," Frodo says. Then without leaving Merry's embrace, Frodo takes one of Sam's hands and one of Pippin's and he looks to the warriors. "If that is the way of it, then I choose to go on with my dear friends. We shall join you."


	13. Or Another

The men take turns on watch, but Gandalf sleeps little and lightly. A sparrow landing on the ground beside him is enough to draw him back out of sleep. He lies still for a few moments, listens to the bird's quiet chirping, then rises and calls to the small company, "We must go to them. We must take them back."

And the men, though called out of sleep, seem grateful to have a concrete order, something to do, but Gandalf's heart is heavy. He had made this plan, after all, and convinced Faramir of it, confident that the hobbits could be trusted to act properly along the journey and after they returned to their home. What purpose did it hold to keep them in Minas Tirith, he had thought, where they would only remind Faramir of the unfortunate but undeniable fact that he had taken the Ring by force from the one who was meant to bear it.

But then, undeniable facts had ceased to be such some time ago. Faramir could deny anything he wished, and he had made the Ring his not only by taking it but by declaring it was meant to be his. He has no guilt over the action and has never seemed troubled by Frodo's presence. Perhaps Gandalf is the one who has wanted the other Ring-bearer out of sight. He prefers not to be reminded (and Frodo does try to remind him, whenever they speak) that he was on the other side of all of this once, that he thought Frodo capable of carrying the Ring even into Mordor.

The Ring has come to Faramir, whether by force or by fate or both it matters not. Gandalf understands and accepts this and has from the beginning. And he was happy enough to have Frodo out of Gondor. But letting him slip from the world of the living entirely is not part of the plan.

They've shadowed the hobbits from a distance since Edoras. The hobbits' walking pace has been tryingly slow for the mounted soldiers, who thought they should stick closer and tended to scoff when Gandalf told them they were still too close, that the hobbits might hear them. No one believes him when he says there is more to these creatures than meets the eye.

He sees Merry and Frodo first, sitting together on the ground. Then Pippin comes running up the hill as Gandalf and the five soldiers ride from the other side.

"Merry!" he shouts. "Merry, let him do it! They're coming to capture us again! They'll take him back!"

But the men are faster. Merry puts up something of a fight but quiets when he is struck, once on the face and once in the gut. He falls to his knees. Frodo kneels and lets himself be manipulated more easily, but he is given a clout to the side of the head for good measure. A short, sharp cry escapes him, and then both are hobbits are still. It is unfortunate, but Gandalf has given the men leave to use force, to let the hobbits know immediately that no resistance will be tolerated. There's no use pretending this is a friendly meeting. They bind the hands of each in front of them, quickly, efficiently. Gandalf goes to Merry and pries open his hand to take the phial of sedative from him.

"Peregrin Took," he says, rounding on the youngest hobbit, who has not yet been subdued. "I believed you to be loyal to our cause. Have you been in conspiracy with your Brandybuck cousin all along then?"

Pippin shakes his head. "No, no plots. Merry thought I was on your side too."

"You share Frodo's delusions, then."

"I share -- "

"Enough!" Gandalf shouts. "Bind this one as well."

"What have we -- "

Merry hisses, "Be quiet, Pip. You'll just make it worse for yourself."

"I am not mad, Gandalf," Pippin declares, not heeding him. "You are the one who's been led astray by the Ring. He's controlling you, don't you -- "

But his words are cut short as Mablung strikes him hard across the face. Pippin too falls to his knees. He moves his hands to catch the blood that starts from his lip, but they are caught and tied. "Don't you see it, Gandalf," he murmurs, dazed, swaying, staring at the ground. Blood drips down his chin.

"You've already been bound, fool. I'll have the four of you gagged as well if you will not keep silent."

"But what's the meaning of this?" Sam, roused from sleep by the noise atop the hill, has scrambled up to join them. He is shocked nearly beyond speech at the scene before him, and that is just as well.

Gandalf holds the poison aloft in his hand. "We believed you could be trusted with these responsibilities, Samwise, but clearly we were wrong. This one as well," he tells the soldiers, and they take Sam, pull him to kneel beside Pippin.

"I have committed a grave error, it seems." _Yet again_, he thinks. "All this time I believed the Ring had only affected Frodo, but now I see that the rest of you are only more clever, more devious in disguising your madness. I am glad my friends and I kept watch on you these last days, for it is clear that you cannot take Faramir's message or his rule to the Shire. We return to Minas Tirith."

Gandalf and three of the men mount their horses, and the other two lift the hobbits to ride with them. Those two will see to the pony and to the hobbits' few belongings while the rest ride on to Edoras with their arms around the little ones. From there they can commandeer a cart to carry them more conveniently back to Minas Tirith. As Gandalf pulls Frodo close and takes hold of the reins, he hears his voice, small, defeated. "Why did you do it, Merry? Why did you stop me?"

"Hush now," Gandalf says, and the horses are moving before anyone has another chance to speak.


	14. drabble epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For an LJ meme, Gentlehobbit requested a drabble set five years after the end of this story.

The Shire was to be left in peace, with the Travellers there to keep watch, but once they disappeared it was war. The winter of 1420 was bad, 1420 far worse, and by now there is no Shire, only the mark on the map of where it was, a few burnt marks on the land where hobbits are no more.

And Frodo thinks how it all could have been different, how the choice was in his hands and he let it go. At night Aragorn tells him there's still hope, but Frodo hasn't believed in a very long time.


End file.
